The King's Folk
by Morwen Tindomerel
Summary: The good folk of Bree finally discover the truth about the Rangers. Set in the November after the WR. A sort of companion piece to 'Rangers of the North'. Finished.
1. The Rangers Return

Barliman Butterbur was in his downstairs room struggling with the Inn accounts when the door slammed open. It was Beomann, his oldest boy, round eyed and panting

"Dad! the Rover just walked in."

Butterbur dropped his pen and shot down the corridor to the common room. The Rover was sitting in the Rangers' usual corner by the fireplace with the sparse handful of other customers clustered around him, all talking at once. The Innkeeper pushed his way through them to find the Ranger looking more than a little bemused by his unaccustomedly warm welcome.

The first words out of Butterbur's mouth sounded plaintive, even to his own ears. "Where did you go?"

"There was bad trouble away up north and in the east." the Rover answered. "We had to go deal with it."

"We had some pretty bad trouble right here," Butterbur retorted indignantly. "fighting even. Some people were actually killed!"

"So I've gathered. I'm sorry."

The Innkeeper pulled out a chair and sat down, a little ashamed of himself for being so snappish. "The Road's not safe these days," he continued in a more apologetic tone, "we've got a nest of brigands somewhere out there in the Wild -"

"Not any more." the Rover interrupted quietly, his grey eyes suddenly very cold.

Butterbur stared at him and swallowed hard. "There's other things too," he said a little huskily. "Wolves, and ghosts or something like it gibbering around the hedge at night."

"Wights." the Ranger's voice was grim. "That's bad. I'd not have expected them to grow so bold. Don't worry, we'll see to it."

Butterbur looked at him, really looked, and saw for the first time the pallor beneath the grime and lines of strain and control around mouth and eyes. "Are you all right?"

The question clearly startled the Rover and he hesitated a little before answering. "Well enough."

"You don't look it." the Innkeeper said bluntly. "You'd best stay here tonight. A hot meal and a good sleep in a proper bed is what you need."

The steely grey gaze softened. "Thank you, I will."

Butterbur stood up, hesitated. "Rover, what's your right name."

The other Man smiled, something Butterbur couldn't remember ever seeing a Ranger do before, said gently. "I am Gilvagor son of Armegil."

He should have known it'd be something outlandish.

The Rover read the thought in his nonplussed face and laughed aloud. Another thing Butterbur couldn't remember seeing a Ranger do before. "Make it Gil. That should come easier to your tongue."

--

Barliman Butterbur was yanked from his slumbers by a pandemonium of voices floating up the main stair. Rolling out of bed he pulled a dressing gown on over his nighshirt and padded downstairs, with his good wife at his heels, to confront a passel of distraught townsfolk clustered around a hysterical, tearstained Woman swathed in homespun shawls.

"Here now, what's all this?" he demanded.

The Woman, The Widow Thistlewood from Alderedge Farm, threw herself into Mrs. Butterbur's arms sobbing. They're gone! They took them, they took them!"

"Took who?" the Missis asked, guiding the other Woman to the settee before the hall fire.

"My babies!" the Widow wailed, "Tom and Daisy! Skeletons, skeletons in white robes! They crawled through the windows and dragged them out of their beds!"

"When?" Gil's voice clove through the confusion like a sword. Mrs. Thistlewood, struck silent, sat mouth open staring at him.

"When?" he repeated sharply, eyes blazing down into hers.

"Just now." she answered, staring as if she couldn't look away. "I ran after them but lost them in the fog."

"I heard her wailing and calling and brought her here." Will Rushlight, the west gatekeeper, put in.

"We may still be in time if we move fast." the Ranger said, half to himself. His eyes swept the assembled Men, bright with strange fires. "I will need help."

--

Barliman Butterbur never really understood how he came to find himself walking through a chilly, eldritch fog towards the dreaded Barrow Downs with his clothes pulled on anyhow, a torch in one hand and a wood axe in the other, surrounded by a dozen or so neighbors similarly armed. The Rover strode at the head of their ragged column, grim and purposeful, the fog rolling aside before him. The Breelanders found themselves following him, against all reason, off the road right into the sinister downs.

It was bitter cold, unnaturally so, and shapes moved in the mist on either side. Steel whispered as Gil drew his sword. The long bright blade caught the starlight, glistening, and the shapes and the fog seemed to draw away in fear. The little column came at last to a long barrow hunched at the foot of a steep down. The dark door gaped open and dead cold air flowed from it.

The Rover turned to face them. His eyes glistened like his sword and power went out from him like heat from a fire. "Fear is the Wights' chief weapon, so do not fear! They fear the light and brave Men, so stand firm and you will prevail. I count on you to keep them from my back - for those two children's sake." He turned, and ducking his head disappeared through the black door.

The moment he vanished the fog, and the things in it, drew closer encouraged. Panicked Butterbur thrust his torch into a mowing skull-like face and it shrank away. Geoff Heathertoes swung his scythe exactly as if he were harvesting grain and a bony arm clattered to the ground, wriggling in a tattered white sleeve. The fog drew back. Panting hard, the Men exchanged looks, spirits rising. It was true then, they could do this - if they kept their nerve and held their ground.

--

Beomann Butterbur was never able to adequately explain to his father, to Gil, or even to himself, the impulse that sent him into the barrow on the Ranger's heels. How much help was a green boy clutching a kitchen cleaver like to be? and yet for all that it stuck in his craw to let the Rover face whatever was there under the earth alone.

Gil carried no torch and neither did Beomann. It should have been black as pitch inside the barrow, but it wasn't. A cold, unholy light burned in the burial chamber and crept, sickly pale, up the passage. And there were voices. Thin, cold, moaning voices drearily chanting in a language Beomann couldn't understand but which seemed to drain the warmth from his body and hope from his soul.

For a moment Gil was silhouetted in the doorway of the burial chamber, then his dark shape vanished inside and Beomann heard his voice cru out a word that stopped the chanters' tongues and shattered the spell like a dropped plate.

Beomann gave a great gasp of relief and crept closer to look inside. The first thing he saw, with horror, was little Tom and Daisy laid out on a slab of stone as if for burial decked in cold, dead gold with a naked sword lying across their throats. The second was three Wights, their white bones clothed in rags of skin and tattered silk. And lastly, facing them, the Ranger, tall and terrible in worn green leather, his eyes and sword gleaming with a pure silver light.

He spoke again, clear ringing words that fired Beomann's heart though he understood them no better than the Wights' song. The undead things shrank and gnashed their fleshless jaws then, snarling, drew long greeny-white swords and sprang at Gil.

His blade flashed clean silver flame as it cleaved the foremost Wight from skull to breast bone. It collapsed in a heap of splintered bone and a cold wind rushed, wailing, past Beomann and up the passage, fading into the distance.

He unscrewed his eyes and uncovered his ears in time to see Gil slice the head from the shoulders of a second Wight and had the sense to get quickly out of the way of whatever it was that fled wailing into the night. More Wights came out of gaping doorways converging on the Rover.

Beomann launched himself at them with an inarticulate cry. Old dry bone splintered under his cleaver as he hacked at limbs and rib cages. It caught on something and was ripped out of his hand. Ducking under the swing of a Barrow Wight's sword Beomann grabbed for a blade lying on the floor, rolled onto his back and skewered the Wight as it bent down to stab him. He scrambled to his feet, swinging the sword inexpertly with both hands as he charged back into the fray. Bone chilling breezes fanned his hair as more things fled wailing into the night.

Suddenly the sickly light went out. Beomann stumbled over a tangle of bone and fabric, fell and lay still, panting, afraid to move in the blackness.

The Rover's voice, breathless but calm, came out of the dark. "Who is there?"

"B-Beomann Butterbur."

There came a rustling then a warm strong hand clasped his arm. "Are you hurt?"

"I don't think so."

"Well, Beomann, I don't know how you came to be here but thank you for your help. Now let's get the little ones out of here."

--


	2. Revelation

It turned out Beomann was hurt. He had a long gash along his jaw with another running from shoulder to elbow on his right arm and a bloody hole through his left thigh. He had to be carried back to the Pony where his mother descended upon him with a sharp cry of dismay.

The Widow Thistlewood hung, wringing her hands and dripping tears, over the cold still bodies of her children as they were gently laid out on a table in the common room. "Are they dead?" she moaned, "are they dead?"

"No," Gil answered her, "but their spirits are lost, wandering in Shadow, and must be called home."

Little Tom and Daisy lay cold and pale as death in their barrow jewels and silken burial robes while what seemed like half of Bree jostled and craned their necks for a look - from a safe distance.

The Rover took each by a limp hand and spoke commandingly in the same strange language he'd used in the barrow. "Lasto beth nîn, tolo dan na ngalad!" Silence fell abruptly over the crowded room but the children did not stir. "In the name of Elendil the King and of Hundeth the Chief I summon thee. By the oath that binds thy kin to mine I bid thee come back to the Light!"

And Tom gave a great gasp and opened his eyes. And his sister uttered a long wail and held her arms out to her mother. Gil stepped quickly back as the Widow caught her children up in a tight embrace and the crowd of Bree folk surged forward to congratulate and exclaim.

He came over to where Beomann sat on a stool before the fire with his mother tending his wounds. "You must watch for infection." the Ranger warned her. "Wightish weapons are notoriously unclean."

"I can imagine." Mrs. Butterbur sniffed. "Nasty undead things!" she squinted up at him. "Are you hurt?"

"Not a scratch, though I might have been killed if not for your son." and he gave Beomann a smile that made him feel warm clear through and a good foot taller. "That was brave, my friend. Not very intelligent, but brave."

"I'm that proud of him." Mrs. Butterbur agreed then threw her son a sharp look. "But if he ever does the like again I'll kill him myself!"

"Yes, Mum. Sorry, Mum." Beomann said meekly. But in his heart he wasn't sorry at all, and in the back of his mind an idea was born to lie hidden, even from himself, for a long while.

His mother was studying the Ranger again and clearly not much liking what she was seeing. "You look like death," she told him. "and you say you're not hurt?"

"Not by Wights." Gil answered, which was a mistake. Ishbel Butterbur had raised four sons and three daughters, she knew an evasion when she heard it.

"By something else then?" the flash of guilt in his face was all the answer she needed. "Get up, Beomann." she ordered. Then to the Ranger. "You, sit down." he opened his mouth to protest. "I said sit down, young man!" The vivid laughter that briefly lit his face made him look young indeed. Meekly he took Beomann's place on the stool.

Under jerkin and shirt was a bandage and it had blood on it. The wound beneath, a nasty diagonal cut across the ribs, had been neatly stitched closed but oozed here and there where it had broken open again. "Taking on who knows how many of those horrid Wights with a great gash like this in you," Mrs. Butterbur scolded as she cleaned, salved and re-bandaged the wound. "have you no sense at all?"

"Not much." Gil admitted, smiling. Then more seriously; "What else could I do, Mrs. Butterbur, with two children gone?"

That silenced her, more or less. She grumbled to herself as she finished her bandaging, then ordered Gil upstairs to bed and to stay there until she said he could get up! That made him laugh again.

"You sound just like my old Nurse. Very well, Mrs. Butterbur, I know how to follow orders. Good night."

--

Two more Rangers - both well known in Bree - arrived early the next morning asking for Gil. Butterbur directed them to his room but Mrs. Butterbur blocked the stairs and gave them a good tongue lashing for not looking after their companion better. They listened in patient silence, with perhaps a trace of amusement, until she got to the Barrow Wights. Then a flash of alarm crossed Treebole's face 1 and he picked her right off the steps, set her gently to one side and shot up the stairs with Silverlock 2 right behind him and Mrs. Butterbur hot on their heels as soon as she got her breath back.

Gil was either awake or wakened the moment they entered and smiled at them. "What's all the noise?"

Treebole crossed the room in three long strides, took his wrist in one large hand, studied his face, then shook his head. "Didn't I say you were using yourself to hard?"

"Mrs. Butterbur has already given me one good scolding," Gil pleaded, eyes twinkling, "I don't need another."

"Might as well save my breath for all the good it'll do." Treebole agreed ruefully.

"Tackling Wights in your state," Silverlock shook his head, "what were you thinking?"

"Of the two children they'd carried off." Gil answered quietly.

The Rangers exchanged a glance and a sigh. "There was no help for it then." Treebole said resignedly, gently laying down his arm. "Very well then, Rover, we'll spare you more reproaches."

"Thank you. Do one thing more for me, see the Barrow is cleansed. I couldn't do it last night and Mrs. Butterbur has forbidden me to get up without her permission, which I fear will not be given just yet." and he gave the hostess, hovering in the doorway, a smile that made her blush like a girl.

--

Barliman Butterbur was waiting for them at the foot of the stair. "Begging your pardon, but I wanted to ask; what should we do about this?" 'This' was the golden jewelry that had adorned the two children, piled neatly on the Rangers' corner table with Beomann's sword lying beside it.

"Keep it if you like," Silverlock answered, fingers brushing lightly over rings and chains, "There's no taint on it that I can feel." He picked up the sword and stiffened, eyes flashing outrage. "Mandos consign them to your deepest dungeons!" he whispered with frightening venom. "That they would dare -" looked at Treebole. "It was Aradan's tomb."

The other Ranger set his mouth in an even grimmer line and nodded upward. "Does he know that?"

"I don't see how he couldn't."

"Aradan?" Butterbur echoed blankly. "You mean King Aradan who was killed in the Witch Wars?"

Both Rangers turned to look at him in surprise. "That's right," Silverlock said, "You know the name?"

The Innkeeper glared. "We remember the Kings, we fought for them in those wars."

"Indeed you did," the Ranger agreed somberly, "and bravely too." he looked down at the sword in his hand. "Aradan and his sons fell before the gates of their citadel and were buried together with the knights who'd stood by them at the last." he raised dark blue eyes to Butterbur's. "Your kin as well as ours lie in that barrow." he extended the sword, hilt first to the Innkeeper. "Give this to your son. The brave Man who bore it would be glad for him to have it."

Butterbur took the blade automatically, eyes never leaving Silverlock's. "The King's People," he breathed wonderingly, "that's who you Rangers really are. You didn't die or go to the Elves, you've been right here all along."

"Where we belong." said Silverlock.

--

Several of the Men who'd followed the Rover out to the Downs the night before, including Butterbur himself, decided to go back with Treebole and Silverlock. Not that they were of much help in finding the barrow, what with the fog and the dark last night.

Luckily the Rangers didn't need assistance but followed a trail the Breelanders couldn't even see unerringly to the long Barrow beneath the steep face of a down. The door gaped blackly as ever by daylight and a slight chill still hung about the place. Treebole knelt down to cut a big square in the turf and roll back the dry winter grass. Then he and Silverlock went into the barrow to bring out the bones and pile them on the bare earth.

It was a nasty job but Butterbur remembered what Silverlock had said about some of those bones belonging to his kin, gritted his teeth and pitched in. And after some hesitation the other Breelanders did too. When they finished the bones, including some ten or fifteen skulls, were in a big heap and the Breelanders drew back a little, uncertainly, to see what the Rangers would do next.

First they covered the bones with shredded silk and tufts of dry grass, then Silverlock took a crystal from his coat and used it to focus the sun's rays on the tinder. After a long minute it began to smoke then caught, little pale flames running all over the pile.

Butterbur cleared his throat. "Why -?"

"Sunfire cleanses." Treebole explained quietly, glanced at his troubled face and added: "If we just buried the bones the Wights could reclaim them. This is the only way to keep that from happening."

"Oh."

There was something funny about the fire, the flames were pale but burned very bright and hot - almost like the sun. Then Silverlock began to sing, a strange, slow song in words Butterbur couldn't understand but which filled his head with visions of high walled cities, sceptered kings, a golden land patterned with prosperous farms and towns, and a darkness held at bay by shining swords. The song ended. Butterbur sniffed and rubbed away the tears rolling down his cheeks with his sleeve. His neighbors' faces were wet too, but none of them could say why.

Silverlock and Treebole went back into the barrow and came out carrying armloads of treasure; gold and silver jewelry glittering with gems; swords and daggers and shields ensigned with stars and trees and ships and other devices. This they spread on the grass and invited the Bree Men to take whatever they fancied and leave the rest lie in the clean sunlight, free to all comers.

"But - it's wrong to rob the dead." Will Rushlight ventured. "The Wights have already done that," Treebole answered, "this is how we break their hold and cleanse the barrow of their presence."

"The King and his knights passed long ago beyond the circles of this world," Silverlock added kindly, "they care nothing for treasure now." He bent and took from the heap a circlet of tiny leaves in bright silver with a green beryl stone set above the brow. He looked at it rather sadly for a moment, before saying; "I chose this."

Treebole silently selected a big red-golden brooch in the shape of a coiled dragon. Thus encouraged the Breelanders began to pick through the glittering pile. Butterbur chose a chain of gold and pearl for his Missis, another of adamant and beryl and topaz for Peggy, a pair of wide silver bracelets set with sapphires for May and an opal ring for Lusey. After a moment's hesitation he also took a long dagger, its blade damasked in a flame pattern of red and gold, for young Gerry, since Beomann already had his sword. For himself he took one of the shields, bright gold, ensigned with sprig of butterbur in green with purple flowers. Why a knight of old would have been carrying it he couldn't imagine, but it would look well over the bar.

--

NOTES:

1. 'Treebole' is so called for his height, greater even than that of most Rangers. His real name is Arallas son of Dornlas, (the same Arallas who is Captain of the Gate of Swords in 'Return') at one hundred and nineteen years he is accounted old even by the Dunendain.

2. 'Silverlock' is so named for his pale hair. His real name is Elfaron son of Ithilion. His ancestors were nobles holding land on the River Lune. He inherits his silver hair from a Half-Elven ancestress


	3. The King's Folk

It turned out the Rover and his companions had had another reason for coming to Bree, beyond a roof over their heads and a chance to hear the news, they needed to buy food.

"You have families," Farmer Appledore said blankly, "women and children?" the three Rangers looked at him and he blushed. "Sorry, of course you must, it's just I never thought -"

"You weren't meant too." Gil told him and continued to the tableful of Bree's leading citizens: "Normally we buy our supplies through the Dwarves, but as you all know last summer and fall were anything but normal." Fervent nods of agreement all round. "With none of the usual fairs or markets open we were forced to fall back on our stores, unfortunately almost all of those were lost when the enemy burned our holdings -"

"Enemy?" Butterbur interrupted. "Surely you don't mean those brigands from down South?"

"No," Treebole agreed grimly, "he means the Hill Folk of the North and the Mountain Orcs."

"Not to mention Stone Trolls, and Hill Trolls. Wights and Sergollim and other things left by the Witch King." added Silverlock.

The Rover silenced his companions with a look. "As I said, we've had troubles of our own to deal with."

Butterbur didn't like the sound of that. He was beginning to suspect Bree's 'bad trouble' had actually been a very small matter indeed, and much worse might have happened had the Rangers not put themselves between the Breeland and the greater threat.

"What about your women and children?" his Missis said suddenly, pausing mid-pour, ale pot in hand. "If your homes were destroyed where are they? Surely not camping out in the Wild!"

Gil seemed to hesitate a moment before answering. "No, most have taken refuge in Annuminas."

"The old capital?" Ben Mugwort gaped, "but it's a ruin now. The enchanted forest grew over it, didn't it?"

The Ranger shook his head. "No, the Elves took care of the city for us. The buildings are sound enough to shelter our people but we need to buy food if we are to make it through the winter."

Naturally the Breelanders immediately agreed to sell, it was certainly better than letting their surpluses of grain and vegetables moulder in the storehouses but - "Are you sure you can afford to pay?" Mugwort blurted, adding hastily, "I mean we'd be glad to give you a discount in you need it."

Gil smiled, "Thank you but that won't be necessary."

Mrs. Butterbur frowned at him. "I know you men, this is no time for silly pride. If your folk are in need -"

Astonishingly all three Rangers grinned. "I promise you, Mrs. Butterbur, payment will not be a problem." Gil's eyes twinkled. "You see, when our ancestors abandoned Annuminas they left the Royal Treasury behind."

The Breelanders gaped. "You don't mean vaults of gold and silver?" Butterbur managed.

"In fact I do." Gil shrugged. "We were surprised too."

"Though we shouldn't have been come to think of it," that was Silverlock, "it's not as if gold or silver would have been any use to them in the Wild."

"Comes in handy now though." said Treebole.

--

The train of twelve large, heavily loaded wagons jolted its way over the broken and grass grown stones of the old North Road. The Wild spread wide and empty around them, rolling hills, stands of forest, jagged outcroppings of rock, and here and there crumbling ruins that were once towns or castles or who knew what.

The sight of them made Beomann's eyes sting. The Wild hadn't always been waste, once upon a time this had all been settled land - a grand and glorious kingdom - and his ancestors had been a part of it. A humble part but they'd obeyed the King's Law and fought in his wars until the day the King and his people had disappeared, leaving Bree to struggle on as best it could alone.

Only they'd never really been alone. Adrift now in this vast emptiness Beomann saw his homeland for what it was, a tiny, fragile bubble of life and order that never could have survived without the constant, secret protection of the Rangers. He found it hard to believe the Breelanders had never guessed who those strange, green clad wanderers and hunters really were. The old stories said the People of the Kings were tall and dark haired and possessed strange magical powers and lived for centuries. And of course Rangers were tall and dark and magical too. And everybody knew they lived much longer than ordinary folk did. Why Strider, who was King now according to old Gandalf, had been coming into the Pony since Beomann's grandfather's time - nigh on sixty years if it was a day.

"How old are you, Gil?" Beomann asked suddenly. The Rover, riding beside the wagon on one of the big, shaggy horses Rangers used, shot him an amused look. "About your father's age I'd say, just short of fifty."

Beomann looked at him hard. It wasn't easy to gage Gil's age; when he got that grim Ranger look he seemed older than the hills but if he chanced to smile or laugh he looked no older than Beomann himself. He was smiling now. "That's not very old as my people measure it. By our standards I'm still little more than a boy."

"How old do you get?" Hobbits lived a bit longer than Men but not even they considered fifty young.

The smile vanished. "If our lives aren't shortened by violence or hardship or grief, perhaps a hundred and fifty years or a little more. My kin may, with good fortune, live sixty or so years beyond that. But we've had all to little good fortune these last centuries." And there was that look again. Gil's reaction to questions was unpredictable. Often they amused him but sometimes he'd go all sad and grim, like now, as if reminded of things he'd rather forget. But then he'd see Beomann's face fall and make an effort to cheer them both up. "Silverlock is just a youngster, like me, but Treebole there is a hundred and nineteen, old even by our measure."

Beomann stared slack jawed at the tall Ranger's long back as he rode next to the lead wagon. Treebole didn't look young but he certainly didn't look that old! Of course all three Rangers had been coming into the Pony as long as Beomann could remember and none of them had aged a day in all that time. "I can't understand why we never figured out who you Rangers really were."

"You weren't meant to." Gil replied.

"You said that before," Dick Heathertoes said from the driver's side of the wagon seat. "What do you mean by it?"

"That you saw and thought what we wanted you to see and think."

Both Breelanders stared at him. "You mean you used magic on us?" Dick asked nervously.

Gil frowned. "I've never really understood what you country people mean by the word 'magic' you seem to use it for so many things."

"Well," Beomann gropped for an example, "what you did in the barrow was magic."

"That was Power." the Ranger agreed. "But fooling the eye is a small thing in comparison, would you call that 'magic' too?"

"Yes!" said both young Men in unison.

Gil shook his head bemused.

"What would you call it?" Beomann wanted to know. Gil shrugged. "A trick, a play. It's a simple thing, we learn it as children. Why I might even be able to teach it to you."

"No thanks!" both Bree Men chorused in lively alarm. And Gil laughed.

"Are you doing it now?" Beomann asked, and the Ranger smiled again. "No, it's no longer necessary."

Beomann looked at him hard, trying to see a change. Gil was still recognizably the Rover he'd known since he was a boy, yet somehow he'd never really noticed the fine aristocratic features under the scrub of beard and dirty hair or the quicksilver brightness of the wide deep grey eyes. The old stories said the King's People were beautiful and Gil was, yet Beomann had never seen it before.

"I don't like the idea of being under a spell." Dick grumbled. "Oh it's not a spell." the Rover assured him quickly. "I promise you those of us who can use such arts do not do so lightly, and certainly never on our own people without their leave."

Beomann suspected what Gil meant by a spell was not what Dick meant by it, but kept his mouth shut. Dick seemed reassured and Beomann wanted him to stay that way. As for himself it wasn't the magic he minded but the deception. Their King hadn't abandoned Bree but he'd hidden himself from its people even as he'd set his own to guard them. It wasn't right. Beomann felt a sudden, irrational surge of resentment. Bree Folk had belonged to the King too! Maybe they didn't have magic like the Men from Over the Sea but they'd kept his laws and fought for him too. It wasn't right he hadn't trusted them!

But how could he say that to Gil, or Silverlock or Treebole after all that they and the other Rangers had done for Bree down the long years? It was Strider, the King, he had to say it too if he ever got the chance - or had the nerve.


	4. The King's City

The high, darkly wooded Evendim Hills marched into the blue distance to the left of the road. Half of the wagoneers, including Beomann, watched the forest like they expected a three headed Oliphant to charge from the verges at any minute. The other half resolutely refused to look at it at all. The Enchanted Forest had an evil name in the Breeland and Gil's reassurances had been somewhat less than successful.

According to him there really was a King and Queen of the Lake - but they needn't worry about them as they were friendly towards the Rangers. Better still the forest really was packed solid with spells and enchantments trapping all kinds of nasty things inside it - but again not to worry! the road and the city had special protections placed on them. Needless to say the Breelanders didn't find this the least bit comforting.

Beomann's heart was in his mouth as the road turned directly towards the forest. They passed under the shadows of the first trees and found themselves faced with a tall gate, intricately wrought in black iron in the form of bare and tangled trees, between two grim towers of dark stone crowned with iron spikes. Treebole blew a long mournful call on a horn. After a moment of tense silence the great gates swung smoothly open before them revealing a spotless white road running between tall, bare black trees. It wasn't until they were actually passing beneath them that Beomann realized the trees weren't real but, like the gate, wrought of iron.

"The Gate of Iron." said Gil suddenly. "Also known as the Gate of Winter."

There didn't seem to be much to say to that. Looking back Beomann saw the gate had closed silently behind the last wagon. There was no going back now. Two miles or so on they came to a second gate between towers of reddish stone topped by brazen spikes. The Gate was bronze too, made to look like tangled trees just like the iron one but covered with bright copper leaves. Beomann wasn't surprised to see the trees beyond this gate were also bronze with large leaves of beaten copper.

"And this is the Gate of Autumn." said Gil.

"Very pretty." Dick managed huskily.

"Thank you. They were made for Elendil long years ago by the greatest Elven craftsman yet living in Middle Earth."

Elendil, Beomann remembered, was the name of the First King. The one who'd escaped from Westerness before it was drowned. So these gates must be thousands of years old - and not a spot of rust or tarnish on them. "Are they magic?"

"I suppose you could call them so." the Ranger conceded with a shrug. That wasn't very reassuring either.

The first and second gates had been strange and beautiful but the third took the breath away. It was of gold, and so were the glittering parapets of the honey colored stone towers that flanked it. And the trees that formed the gate and lined the road beyond it were covered with leaves and fruits of jewels, sparkling green, gold, red, pink and orange in the sunlight.

"This is the Golden Gate of Summer." said Gil.

Beomann had to swallow twice before he could get the words out. "Are we there yet."

The Ranger laughed. "Not quite. Still two more gates to go." Beomann exchanged a bemused look with Dick. It was hard to see how they'd top that last gate. The Bree Men braced themselves for further wonders.

Shining white towers with silver parapets flanked silver gates wrought in the shape of new budding trees covered with young leaves and blossoms. And the tall silver trees lining the road on the other side also glittered with pale green gems, the exact color of new leaves, and many hued jeweled flowers.

"Don't tell me, the Gate of Summer." Dick blurted and Gil laughed and nodded.

"And now you've run out of seasons," said Beomann, "so what's your last gate called?"

"The Gate of the Two Trees." both Breelanders looked at him blankly and he smiled. "I take it you don't know that tale?"

Dick shrugged. "Beomann here's the expert on the old stories."

The younger Man flushed a little but admitted. "I can't say I've ever heard that one."

"Long ago, before the Sun and the Moon were made, when Elves and Men still slept in the mind of Eru," Gil began - just as Bree storytellers always started with 'Once upon a time when the King still ruled,' "the only light in Middle Earth came from the stars of Varda. But in the far West, in Aman the Undying, there grew two Trees and from them light fell as rain and dew.

"Telperion was the elder, the Tree of Silver, and its light was purer and stronger than that of the new moon. The Tree of Gold was known as Laurelin and a fiery rain, hotter and brighter than sunlight, fell from its boughs. For long ages the Valar and the Maiar dwelt in the light of the Trees, and when the Elves awoke in Middle Earth they were called to Aman that they might share in the light as well.

"But Morgoth, the Great Enemy, hated all light that was not his own and he poisoned the Two Trees, thinking thereby to plunge the world into darkness unending. But before dying Telperion put forth one last silver flower; and Laurelin a final fruit of gold.

"And the Valar took them and placed them in vessels imperishable and set them in the heavens that they might give light to all Middle Earth. Thus the final flower of Telperion became the Moon, and the last fruit of Laurelin the Sun.

"And it is said that the Second Children, our race, the race of Men, awoke to the first dawn of the first day of the Sun. And so the Elves call us the Children of the Sun and the dawn will ever bring new hope to Men.

"But the High Elves remember and mourn for the Light of the Trees, which lives now only in the Silmarils - and they are lost."

Beomann shivered, suddenly catching a vertiginous glimpse of the vast, dark gulf of time underlying his small familiar world like a fallen leaf floating on the surface of a deep well. "Silmarils?"

Gil smiled. "That's an even longer story, we'll save it for another time I think." he pointed ahead. "There it stands, the Gate of the Trees."

High, grassy green banks reared up before them on either side of the road, closed by tall, shining gates of gold and silver intermingled, adorned with figures of the sun and moon. And the gateposts were two gigantic trees, one of silver and one of gold, both more than a hundred feet high. The leaves of the silver tree were dark green above and silver below and it was covered with glistening flowers of pearl. And the tree of gold had light green leaves, gilt edged, and fiery clusters of topaz blossoms dripping from its boughs.

"Is that - is that what they looked like? Telperion and Laurelin." Beomann stammered.

"As close as craft can come to it." Gil answered. "Enerdhil made them, who saw the Two Trees in their glory before the coming of the Dark Lord."

The Breelander thought he'd never seen anything so wonderful and beautiful. Then the gates opened and he had his first sight of Annuminas the Golden, City of Elendil. The road became a broad avenue lined with fragrant evergreen trees, unlike any he'd seen before, descending into a shining city of white stone. Its many domes and the pinacles of its soaring towers were overlaid with gold that glowed in the sunlight filling the air with a warm radiance.

The Breelanders' wagons rattled past tall houses with balconies of fretted stone and wide windows set with colored glass like jewels. Pillared arcades shaded rows of empty shops, and grand public buildings were adorned with statues of Kings and Queens, armored knights and fair ladies. There were green parks and gardens full of unfamiliar but very beautiful flowers and everywhere the glitter of water in pools and channels and hundreds of splashing fountains.

The Rangers matched their city. There were more of them than the Breelanders had imagined; tall and dark haired with light, piercing eyes in proud, stern faces. Many of the Men were dressed in the familiar greeny-brown leathers but others wore long garments in dark, rich colors under swirling cloaks fastened at throat or shoulder by glittering pins. The Women were nearly as tall as the Men and every bit as stern and grim. But they were beautiful too, like queens and princesses of old, with their long hair hanging down their backs and flowing, jewel colored gowns showing under fur lined mantles. And, unbelievably, there were children. Small, bright eyed and noisy, running wild in packs. Chasing each other through the columns of the arcades; barely dodging, or failing to dodge, their elders; laughing and calling to each other in the strange musical language Gil had used for his spells.

Beomann could imagine what his mother would have had say to his brothers and sisters if they'd behaved so but the adult Rangers didn't seem to mind at all. They just got out of the way, or failed to, and exchanged smiles over the children's heads.1 Finally the avenue came to an end in a great plaza. Golden fountains cascaded down terraces of colored marbles under the benign gaze of numerous statues and above it all rose the many spired golden domed palace glittering with jewel-toned window casements, its great tower soaring high into the blue sky. Clearly they couldn't take the wagons up there!

Treebole turned left, and they fallowed skirting the terraces, until they came to lacy gates of silver and steel between doorposts carved in the forms of tall knights armed and helmed. These stood open and they rolled right into a large stableyard, distinctly grander than the Pony's but still comfortingly familiar to the eye and nose.

Rangers dressed in grey and white came to take the horses. "I see your mission was successful, Captain." one said to Gil.

"Thanks to our friends in Bree." he answered with a smile for the wagoners, huddled uncomfortably together unsure of what to do next. "Where is my Grandmother?"

"In the Hall tending to business." the Man answered and shook his head. "There seems no end to it."

Gil nodded, grimly. "I never thought victory could be so troublesome." he agreed then turned to his companions. "Arallas, find quarters and refreshments for our friends. Masters Heathertoes, Master Butterbur come with me if you will."

Treebole herded the rest of the Breelanders off in one direction while Geoff and Dick and Beomann followed Gil and Silverlock in another. They passed under an archway and through a pair of tall ivory doors carved with trees and stars into a broad hallway with colored marbles set in intricate golden arabesques on floor and high vaulted ceiling, the walls hung with paintings and lined with carved pillars and statues.

It made Beomann feel very small and grubby and badly out of place. He looked enviously at Gil. Somehow, despite being every bit as dirty as the Breelanders and the worn green leathers he wore the Ranger fit right in with all this splendor. His fine features echoed the sculpted faces and he had the regal bearing of a king come home. A second pair of doors, this time of gold but inlaid with trees and stars in silver and white stones, opened onto a vast round hall.

The high domed ceiling was dark blue and patterned with stars that glittered with their own light just like the real ones. A glimmering silver tree grew out of the dais in the middle of the room, its leaves chiming softly against each other as they moved. A Woman sat in a silver chair beneath its boughs surrounded by Rangers, all talking in quiet, measured voices. They made way for Gil and he led the three Bree Men to the foot of the dais.

The Woman rose to greet them. "Master Heathertoes, Master Richard, Master Butterbur, welcome to Annuminas."

Beomann felt his jaw drop, and he didn't have to look at the Heathertoe brothers to know their expressions would be equally sandbagged.

"N-Nightcrow?" Geoff quavered.

"Ellemir," she corrected, deep grey eyes like Gil's glinting amusement, "Lady of the Dunedain." She looked a lot like Gil, but then she would if she was his grandmother. Then Beomann remembered how old Gil really was and gulped. Nightcrow - Ellemir - must be nearly as old as Treebole 2 but she looked younger than Beomann's own mother. The long black hair held back by a silver circlet hadn't a thread of grey in it and her elegant, high boned face showed a few lines but no wrinkles. "We are grateful for your help, Master Heathertoes. What foodstuffs in what amounts have you brought and what was the agreed price?"

The prosaic business talk struck Beomann as being wildly out of place in this setting, but nobody else seemed to think so. The Rangers listened with their usual grave attention as Ellemir and Gil and Geoff talked about grain and vegetables and the going rates for cartage and delivery. Beomann's own mind wandered as he looked at the people around him.

A very beautiful woman all in dark grey with a long veil over her hair stood on the steps of the dais next to a slender, tired looking girl also in grey. A bearded Man in shades of green with a golden chain around his neck sat on a stool on the step below them, one leg thick with bandages and a short silver topped staff leaning against his good knee. Gil too, had mounted the dais to stand on the step just below his grandmother. Some of the people gathered at the foot of the dais were dressed in Ranger leathers, others in dark grey a few in brighter colors, and they weren't all Men, (and Women). Beomann saw a trio of Dwarves, two red bearded and one with a black beard braided with gold. And a tall, slim, silver haired person who could only be an Elf.

Something about those delicate features struck Beomann as familiar. Jarred he looked at Silverlock standing next to him, then back at the Elf. There was a definite resemblance. Some said the King's People were part Elf, apparently they were right. Then Geoff and Dick were bowing, rather awkwardly, and Beomann realized their audience was over. As Silverlock herded them back towards the door he heard Gil begin to talk in the musical Ranger language, sounding both grim and sad. For all their magical city these people were clearly in trouble and Beomann wondered if there was anything else Bree might do help. A shipment of food seemed to small a repayment for the Rangers' thousand unthanked years of defending the Breeland.

--

NOTES:

1. Annuminas is a tremendously exciting place for the young Dunedain, giving them the opportunity to meet and play with a great many other children something their usual lifestyle on scattered holdings didn't allow. Though nowhere near as permissive as Elves the Dunedain do tend to go easy on the discipline for their children's first ten or twelve years, knowing only too well how grim their adult lives are likely to be. Strangers are often painfully struck by the contrast between the lively, high spirited youngsters and their silent, watchful elders.

2. Actually she's much older. Ellemir is one hundred and seventy five, a venerable age even for a member of the Royal House.


	5. The Lost Realm Restored

Luckily the living quarters of the Palace, away from the great halls and chambers of state, proved nowhere near as overwhelming - though still not exactly what a Breelander would call 'homey'.

Gil, Treebole and Silverlock didn't reappear but Beomann made friends with the young Ranger in grey and white who brought their lunch and their supper and seemingly had been assigned to look after them. He really was young too, just Beomann's age, and only a little taller with soft black hair, brown skin and startlingly pale grey eyes. His name was Danilos, but he didn't mind being called Dan.

"Why do you all have such odd names?" Beomann asked idly the next morning as he lay by a pool in the Palace gardens with the Ranger sitting cross-legged nearby.

Dan smiled down at the arrow he was fletching. "Because they're in the Grey Elven tongue not a language of Men."

"So you people are part Elf."

He shook his head. "Only some of us. The Line of Isildur of course and a few other Houses. Most Dunedain are mere Men."

Beomann's look was skeptical. Men maybe, but there was nothing 'mere' about them.

"Our ancestors adopted the Elven speech three Ages ago," the other continued, "when they allied with the High Elves of the West against the Great Enemy."

Beomann sat up, blurting the question that had been bothering him all night. "Dan, what's happened to your people?"

The Ranger put the finished arrow down beside the others and took an un-fletched shaft from the pile, his face grim and sorrowful and much older than it had been just a second ago. "We have won a great victory but it has cost us almost all we had."

"Gil said your homes had been burned." Beomann offered awkwardly.

"There isn't a holding or strong place left standing north of the road." Dan answered baldly, hands busy with his arrow. "And the south and the east are little better off. Raiders even won through to Lune Dale and the Tower Hills and that's never happened before, even in the worst of the Flood Years."

Beomann frowned, puzzled. "Flood Years?"

Dan gave him another bleak smile. "Our name for times when our Enemy has come near to overwhelming us. This year was the worst - and the last."

"There've been others?" Beomann'a blood chilled, how long had this war been going on with Bree knowing nothing about it?

"Too many." Dan said flatly.

Beomann decided not to pursue that question just yet. "And this is where the Rangers went when you all disappeared?"

But Dan shook his head. "Only the children, the old and some of the women. Those still fit to bear arms went North to face the Enemy."

"Enemy, what enemy?"

"Angmar." the Ranger answered grimly.

"The Witch Kingdom?" Beomann stammered. "But I thought - wasn't it destroyed?"

"Oh yes." even more grimly. "Carn Dum was leveled and her people scattered. But that was no more the end of them then the destruction of Fornost was the end of the Dunedain.

As the power of Sauron grew so did the numbers and might of the Hill Folk and Carn Dum was rebuilt. Orcs and Trolls multiplied in the Mountains, and other Dark things came forth from their hiding places."

"Like the Wights." said Beomann.

Dan nodded. "We have been hard pressed these last years. Foot by foot they drove us back until the Line of Defense was just a few miles north of the Road. Then, at the beginning of March, Greymere fell and the Line was broken."

"What was Greymere?"

"The seat of the Wardens of the Weather Hills and key to control of the Road. When we lost Greymere we lost the power to defend our country people from the storm to come. So the Lady and the Captains decided to carry the battle to the Enemy, and that the time for secrecy was ended." Dan's sudden smile glinted like the steel edge of a sword. "The Captains rode to Rivendell to get the Arms and Banners of the Kings from Lord Elrond and the rest of us brought out the weapons and trappings our ancestors had put aside, at Aranarth's bidding, over a thousand years ago when first we became Rangers."

"So Nightcrow - Lady Ellemir that is - is your leader?" Beomann asked puzzled. "What about Strider, I thought he was Chief of the Rangers?"

"And so he is, Isildur's Heir and our King. But he was down in the South, as he still is, and in his absence my Lady, his grandmother, governs the Dunedain.

"Nightcrow is Strider's grandmother!" Beomann interrupted. And if she was Gil's grandmother too that must mean - "Gil's royalty? He's descended from the Kings?"

Dan gave him a look of mild surprise. "He is the next in blood, the heir until the Dunadan gets himself another." he smiled faintly. "Which he may do now at last!"

Beomann flopped back on the grass. Stupid of him, he should have realized as much for himself when he saw Nightcrow sitting on a throne. "So you went north?" he prompted.

Dan nodded, eyes shining. "It was like the Elder Days had come again. There were ranks of knights and men-at-arms with the sunlight glittering on their armour, and of archers with the great Numenorean warbows over their shoulders, a full ten thousand in all, and the banners of the High Kingdom, Arthedain and the Heirs of Isildur flying over our heads."

"You were there?" that got Beomann a look of surprise.

"Of course." Dan continued: "The Elves of Lindon and the Lake sent what strength they could spare to join us, in memory of our ancient alliance some two thousand in all. We met the vanguard of Angmar's army, four times our number or more, at the Gornen -" he broke off remembering who he was talking to. "but I don't suppose you know the far northern lands?"

"How could I?" Beomann asked druly.

Dan gave him another faint smile and explained. "It's a small river some fifty leagues north of here. In spring and summer it carries snowmelt from the Rhudaur Hills but spring came late this year, as I'm sure you remember, so its bed was nearly dry.

"They were still in marching order when we encountered them, mounted Hill Men in the advance and Orcs on foot behind. The Captain led our horse in a charge on the Hill Men while our archers and foot-soldiers flanked them to engage the Orcs." Dan's eyes sparkled at the memory. "The shock of being suddenly attacked by a foe long thought dead was too much for the Enemy, they soon broke and fled northward, carrying their panic with them to infect the main host.

"Their captains wasted some days trying to find a way round us but finally braced themselves to face us beneath the Angmar Hills." Dan shook his head. "They chose their ground badly, a narrow sloping plain with the high Hills on one side and the deep gorge of the Forochel River on the other making it impossible for them to spread out and take full advantage of their numbers.

"The Captain set the Warden of the Weather Hills to guard our left flank from attack through the Hills. And himself took command of our left wing, giving that of the right to the Lady Ellemir." Dan paused, realizing from Beomann's blank expression he was becoming too technical. "The Captain aimed his attack directly at the leaders of the Enemy host while Lady Ellemir and the Warden kept our flanks from being turned, the Enemy from getting round us that is."

"I see." Beomann said. Military strategy was new to him but he felt he had a sort of grasp of what Dan was saying. "They ran again and we followed to the plain before Carn Dum itself." Dan smiled, this time grimly. "Then at last they had us at a true disadvantage for their numbers covered the field and they were protected by dikes and traps. Worse still they had two dragons -"

"Dragons!" Beomann interrupted. "Small ones, fifty or sixty feet no more." Dan said calmly. "We were expected to attack headlong, as we had been doing, but of course that would have been folly. Instead we circled rightward around their prepared position. Theu tried to stop us with cavalry, and when that failed set the dragons on us.

Our archers brought them down and Captain Ingloron killed them on the ground but was wounded to the death in the doing. Finally the Enemy were forced to leave their entrenchments to attack us on ground of the Captain's choosing but even so we would have been worsted had not the Ringbearer destroyed Sauron and all his works just in the nick of time. Dan raised a questioning eyebrow. "You do know about the Ring?"

"Heard all about it - from Gandalf and Mr. Baggins himself." said Beomann.

"Of course, they would have passed through Bree on their way home to the Shire." Dan nodded. "The Enemy broke and fled again but that wasn't the end of it. We still had to besiege and take Carn Dum, drive the Hill Men back into their hills, and hunt out and destroy the scattered hosts of Orcs and Wargs and other things."

"And that's what you've been doing since you all vanished." said Beomann.

"In the north, yes. Our kin to the east and south have had their own battles to fight. It is only recently we've had the leisure to take up our patrolling again. I know that's been hard on Bree and the other country folk. I'm sorry."

"Don't worry about it." Beomann said, and this time it was his turn to sound grim. "We managed."

--

Nobody seemed to understand how Beomann felt, certainly not his fellow Breelanders.

"Be reasonable, Beomann," Tim Brockhouse said patiently. "We Breefolk aren't warriors, neither the Big nor the Little." Tim was a Hobbit. "What good would it have done us, or the Rangers, if we'd known all this? We'd only have worried ourselves sick over things we couldn't help."

"Tim's right." Geoff Heathertoes agreed. "We're plain, practical folk in Bree, not heroes or wizards. The Rangers were quite right to let us tend to our business in peace."

"While they defended us!" Beomann demanded.

"Why not?" Dan Rushlight chimed in. "That's their business isn't it? Let them get on with it I say." he frowned a little. "Mind you we could have been a good bit kinder and more helpful, would have been too if we'd known."

The other Men and Hobbits nodded agreement. "Well we know now don't we?" said Tim's brother Tam, "We'll make it up to them."

"Oh you're all hopeless!" Beomann cried, and slammed out of the room. He stormed down the long, empty palace corridor and out a door opening onto a sort of hanging porch or gallery looking over the city to the Lake but found it already occupied.

For a moment he completely failed to recognize the Man in dark grey velvet perched on the parapet between two slender pillars. Then he did and his jaw dropped. "Gil?"

The Ranger nodded, eyes glinting amusement. "I clean up well, do I?"

That was an understatement! Gil's hair was sleek and combed and crowned by a thin circlet of silver twisted with gold and there was a chain thick set with pearls glimmering against the soft velvet. He looked like a prince and Beomann remembered abruptly he was a prince, descended from the King who had disappeared and close kin to the one who'd returned, and his hurt, frustration and anger overflowed.

"You didn't tell us! The Elves and Dwarves knew all about you but you hid yourselves from us, your own people! It's not right, it's not fair!" Gil looked at him in astonishment as he continued bitterly. "But maybe you were right, the others don't seem to care there's been a war going on for a thousand years with us knowing nothing about it, coddled like we were children." Beomann's eyes filled with tears. "We were the King's people too, as much as you, he should have trusted us."

"It was not a lack of trust." Gil said emphatically. He got up from his perch, put two firm hands on Beomann's shoulders and transfixed him with a level silver-shot stare. "There are no braver or loyaler folk in all Middle Earth than our own country people, and nobody knows that better than the House of the Kings. Men and Hobbits alike fought valiantly in the Witch Wars and paid a bitter price for it. They died by the thousands in the plague years, were driven from their lands by the Enemy and lost nearly half their men to war.

"When your fathers swore allegiance to the Kings we swore in return to defend you from foes." he grimaced. "It seemed to Aranarth that while you had more than kept your side of the bargain we had done a very poor job of keeping ours."

"That wasn't your fault." Beomann said.

"In a sense it was." Gil answered soberly. "The Dark Lord cared nothing for Men of your kind or Hobbits, it was Isildur's heirs and the Men of Westerness he sought to destroy. It was never your war."

"Tell that to Frodo Baggins."

Gil blinked, then laughed, releasing Beomann from eyes and hands. "You're right of course. The fight against the Shadow belongs to us all, and it was not the 'High Men of the West' who won this battle." he shrugged. "Forgive me, sometimes we tend take to much upon ourselves." he continued. "Aranarth thought to give your people time to recover and rebuild, and afterwards there seemed no reason you involve you directly as you were doing good service as you were."

Beomann gave him a look of open skepticism and he smiled. "No truly, not only did you grow the food we needed to sustain us but you kept Arnor from turning entirely into the Wild."

The younger Man thought that over. "Well...maybe you've got a point there. But I still think we should have been told."

"Maybe we were wrong." Gil conceded, flashing a quick smile, "it wouldn't be the first time. But please believe we meant no slight to your people's valor or their loyalty."

"All right." Beomann mumbled, feeling mollified almost in spite of himself, and a little silly.

"I'm glad your folk hold no grudge as we will be needing your help badly." the Ranger continued.

"Our help?" Beomann repeated, incredulously.

Gil nodded, picking up the letter he'd been reading. "Aragorn - Strider, the King - has in his infinite wisdom resolved to rebuild the cities." his dry tone suggested he was none to enthusiastic about the idea. But Beomann's eyes glowed.

"Norbury and Sudbury and Wutherington?" 1

Gil's eyebrows rose a little and he tilted his head thoughtfully. "The idea appeals to you?'

"Of course! You need us to help with the building?"

The Ranger shook his head. "No, we'll have the Dwarves and our kin from the South to help us there, We need you to teach us how to live in a settled country again."

Beomann stared and he smiled wryly. "We've lived lone in the Wild for more than a thousand years, and its been at least that long since we practiced any trade but war." Gil's face turned suddenly sad. "Much has been forgotten, commerce and crafts and the growing of food. We can relearn those things from you."

Beomann had a brief, incongruous vision of a class of solemn Rangers listening attentively as he lectured them on innkeeping. "If that's what you want."

--

NOTES:

1. Norbury is Fornost, Sudbury Cardol and Wutherington was the city that once stood on the slopes of Weathertop beneath Minas Sul, the Tower of the Winds. Only the first is canonical.


	6. Homecoming

Treebole and Dan escorted the wagons back to Bree where the adventurers were welcomed home with almost tearful relief, though their tales of golden towers and silver trees and magic gates where taken with a rather large helping of salt.

To Beomann's surprise his father seemed even less enthusiastic about rebuilding the cities than Gil had been. "We don't want a lot of outsiders tearing up the Wild and making trouble. We've had enough of that!"

"Dad! This would be the Rangers." Beomann protested, scandalized.

Butterbur had the grace to look embarrassed. "Well of course that's a little different, no offense meant."

"Naturally they want to live like decent folk again," Mrs. Butterbur said, with a kindly smile at Dan, "who wouldn't, the poor dears."

"Perfectly understandable you'd be concerned, Mr. Butterbur," Treebole said with a straight face but a fugitive glint of amusement in his eye, "given what's happened here lately. But I promise you the Dunadan's thinking of proper settlements of respectable folk following the King's Law not camps of brigands or tramps, and none near enough to Bree to crowd you."

"Wutherington would be the closest and it's more than twenty leagues away as the crow flies." Dan put in encouragingly.

"Just think how good it will be for business, Dad," Beomann added, "what with people traveling back and forth between the cities."

"That would be all to the good." Butterbur admitted. "But the idea takes a little getting used to, if you take my meaning. We don't like change here in Bree, 'specially since it's mostly for the worst - or has been."

Treebole smiled wryly. "Well if it's any comfort to you, Mr. Butterbur, we Rangers are none to sure how we feel about it either. It's been quite a while since we lived like 'decent folk' and it's going to take some getting used to for us too."

--

Beomann just couldn't seem to settle back into the hum-drum life of Bree. It wasn't that he yearned for white marble cities with golden domes and the very air fairly stiff with magic - far from it! What he couldn't stand was the thought of all the things going on out there somewhere; battles being fought, cities rebuilt and a kingdom being reborn with him knowing nothing about it and having no part in it at all.

His father saw his discontent and it worried him. "We should never have let him go," he told the Missis, "who knows what ideas it's put into his head?" But he, Butterbur, was getting some odd notions of his own these days. Part of him wanted Bree to stay exactly the way it was, just as he'd told Treebole. Yet somehow he couldn't forget the vision Silverlock's song had shown him; the fruitful, golden land with tall cities and tall Kings to guard it. If Strider - the King he should say - could bring those days back again surely it would be a good thing? Dimly Butterbur foresaw the possibility of a larger, more prosperous Bree. No longer a lonely island of habitation lost in the Wild but an important center in a greater realm.

It was more than a month since Dan and Treebole had disappeared into the Wild, on patrol they said, and neither they nor any other Ranger had been seen in Bree since. The lack of news was driving Beomann half mad. "And they have these lamps," he told his mother and sisters early one morning as they swept and scrubbed the common room for another day's custom, "glassy globes in silver cages. Perfectly clear by day but at night they glow all silvery-blue. And they hang them from the trees lining the streets and in the parks to light them up at night."

"Dear me," said his mother, "how does anybody get any sleep then?"

"Oh it's not so bright as all that." Beomann assured her. "And it's very pretty to see, like little moons caught in the branches of the trees."

"Hmmm." Ishbel Butterbur straightened to give her son a thoughtful look. "Pretty maybe, but it doesn't sound very homey to me."

"It's not." he agreed ruefully. "I'm glad to have seen the Kings' City but I wouldn't want to live there!" he meant it too, every word, and his mother knew it and was satisfied.

"I'd like to see it too." Lusey, Beomann's youngest sister, said suddenly.

Her mother frowned at her, then smiled. "To tell the truth so would I. Maybe someday we'll let Beomann take us there."

All four of her children looked at her in amazement. Ishbel had never gone farther than the Forsaken Inn nor wanted to. Not even to the annual fair at Hoarwelling.

The outer door opened and Mr. Butterbur hurried to the counter to greet the first customer of the day. "Longbow!"

Beomann dropped his broom and rushed around the bar to see for himself. All Rangers were tall, topping the Bree Men by a half head or more, but Longbow was a real giant, the tallest Man Beomann had ever seen, and carried a bow as long as he was - hence his name.

"Has there been any more trouble with the Hill Men?" he demanded, "and have they started the rebuilding yet? And is there any word of when the King's coming home?"

Longbow looked at him in astonishment and his father clucked his tongue.

"Now, now, Beomann, what kind of greeting is that? At least let the Man sit down before you start pelting him with questions."

"That's all right, Mr. Butterbur." Longbow assured him and smiled kindly down at Beomann. "I'm afraid I don't know any more about the state of the northern frontier than you, my duty lies in the south and the east. Nor do I know when Aragorn plans to come home, soon I hope. As for the rebuilding, that's why I've come, to meet Gilvagor and Aranel and inspect the sites of Wutherington and Sudbury."

"Gil's coming here?" Beeomann asked eagerly.

Longbow nodded. "Bree is a convenient meeting place for us. They should arrive sometime today."

"That's nice," the elder Butterbur said, perhaps a little too heartily, "always a welcome for Rangers here."

Longbow had the courtesy to betray no surprise at this startling new sentiment.

"And what is your right name?" Butterbur continued determinedly.

"Belegon son of Belecthor." the Innkeeper's face congealed and he added quickly. "But Longbow does very well."

"No, no, Belegon it is." Butterbur repeated to himself under his breath. "Bel-e-gon, Bel-e-gon. Right, got it."


	7. You Can't Come Home Again

Who is this 'Aranel' coming with Gil?"

Barliman Butterbur asked his eldest son as the two of them hastily swallowed their lunch in the kitchen. Ishbel, hands covered with flour, was making pies further down the long wooden table.

"That's Lightfoot's real name." Beomann answered and saw his mother's face congeal. "She's Gil's sister." he continued quickly remembering Ishbel's past comments on that subject, ('Shameless hussy and no better than she should be I'll warrant!) "her husband was killed in the fighting up north I told you about."

Mrs. Butterbur's expression changed, as if by magic, from scorn to burning sympathy. "Oh the poor thing! any children?"

"Three, including a new baby."

"Oh my! how dreadful, the poor dear."

Beomann reflected ruefully that 'poor dear,' was not a phrase he'd ever apply to Lightfoot, widow and mother of orphaned children though she might be.

When Gil finally appeared late that afternoon he had with him not just Lightfoot, or more properly the Lady Aranel, but her two elder children: Daeron, a dark, serious faced boy of nine and six year old Lalaith, a pretty golden haired little thing whose big blue eyes and beaming smile instantly won the heart of everybody in stable yard and Common Room.

"Really, Lightfoot - Mistress Aranel I meant to say - dragging young children all this way through the Wild. I'd have expected you to know better!"

Ishbel scolded as she cut generous slices of cake and served them to the two children.

"Daeron will be Warden of the Weather Hills someday, and so responsible for any settlement below Weathertop."

Aranel explained calmly, adding with a glint of humor. "And if Daeron was to have his head cut off Lalaith would insist on loosing hers too, on the same block to the same axe."

Ishbel nodded ruefully. "Don't I know it, my lot are just the same."

She poured a couple of tall glasses of buttermilk for the little ones and snuck another sidelong look at their mother. Lightfoot had always been rather too pretty in her dark mysterious way to suit the goodwives and maidens of Bree, but all of a sudden Ishbel saw she was not merely pretty but beautiful - more beautiful than any ordinary Woman could ever be - like a lady in an old story from the Days of the Kings.

Ishbel couldn't understand how she'd never noticed before. Certainly she wasn't the only one noticing now! The number of dropped jaws and round eyes in the Common Room had moved her to suggest a private parlor - using the children as an excuse. Why even old Barliman, loving and loyal husband that he was, could barely tear his eyes away and kept losing the thread of the conversation he was having with Gil and Longbow - or Belegon as he called himself.

"Provisioning the building crews will be the main problem, if Aragorn insists on proceeding with this project." Gilvagor said, firmly drawing the Innkeeper's wandering attention back to himself. "We're going to need your help there Master Butterbur."

"You don't mean to quarter all those Dwarves and Men from down South here in Bree, do you?" Barliman asked in lively alarm. "Certainly not." Gil reassured him. "They'll camp on the building site. But I was hoping you'd be willing to use your connections to help us keep them fed - for a suitable commission of course!"

"Oh, yes, of course." that sounded promising anyway. "Er, when can we expect all these folk?"

"Not for another year or two at least." Gil replied, even more reassuringly. "Plenty of time to make the necessary arrangements."

And to get used to the idea, Butterbur thought. But after all they'd always had odd folk passing through Bree. What were a few more - especially if they were good paying customers for the Inn?

The parlor door opened and Beomann came in balancing a tray with a pair of fresh pitchers of beer on it. He set it on the table in front of the three Men and said in a rush; "Gil, there's something I wanted to ask you."

The Ranger raised a gently interrogative eyebrow and Barliman Butterbur looked apprehensively at his eldest son who blurted: "What would I have to do to join the Rangers?"

Barliman's mouth opened but nothing came out. Ishbel was similarly struck speechless, clutching the milk jug to her breast. Beomann rushed on: "I know you take folk who aren't your kind, Dan told me, so - so would you take me?"

"As you yourself pointed out the Men of Bree are as much the King's Folk as the Dunedain or the Men of Rhudaur -" Gil began mildly, only to be interrupted by a heartfelt cry from Ishbel.

"He mustn't go! what will we do without him?"

"Quite right." her husband agreed. "What are you thinking of, Son? We need you here at home."

"You do not! You've got plenty of hands to do the work of the Inn." Beomann snapped back, then contritely: "I'm sorry, Dad, but I'll go crazy if I stay here. The Realm's coming back to life and I want to be a part of it!"

"You'll get yourself killed!" his mother wailed, "fighting Barrow Wights and who knows what other horrors!"

"I can't promise he won't get killed, but I do promise he'll be taught to defend himself." Gil answered her.

Beomann's face lit up. "Does that mean you'll take me?"

"Not against your parents' will," Gil looked at the elder Butterburs, "but such enthusiasm should not be wasted." adding gently. "You must have expected this."

Barliman nodded heavily. "I've been afraid of it ever since he came back from your city." He looked at his wife. "Beomann's of age, Sweetheart, we'd have no right to stop him if he took it into his head to become a trader or move to Staddle, I don't see how this is any different."

Ishbel didn't argue, just stood there dripping tears. Aranel put a gentle hand on her shoulder. "All children all lost from the beginning, Mrs. Butterbur. Like hawks they must be let to fly when the time comes."

"I do not foresee death for Beomann, Ishbel." Gil told her, "And I do see him coming home, in time, to Bree."

"Of course I will!" Beomann but his arms around his mother. "I love Bree, I wouldn't want to live anywhere else. I just want to see other places too, and be where things are happening."

Longbow - Belegon - smiled. "You're not the first Butterbur to feel that way, my friend. Sir Tolman would be proud of you."

All three Butterburs stared at him in confusion. "Who?"

Belegon's eyebrows knit in a slight frown. "Tolman Butterbur of Upwood who fell in the final defense of Cardol. I don't know what kin he would be to you but surely that's his shield you have above your bar?"

"Is it?" Barliman said a little blankly. "Upwood did you say? That's our family all right. We had a good farm there before the Great Dying (1) drove us north to Bree."

"One of my ancestors was a King's knight?" Beomann asked wonderingly.

"More than one." said Belegon. "There were several others I believe, but Sir Tolman is the only one remembered in song."

"Remembered in song." Ishbel echoed, squared her shoulders. "Well then, Son, you have something to live up to don't you!"

"I don't doubt but he will." said Gil.

--

NOTES:

1. The terrible Plague of 1636 decimated the non-Dunedain population of Cardolan. The survivors fled northward in hopes of escaping the contagion which was said to be less virulent in the higher, cooler clime near the road.

King Elboron of Cardolan died in that year, not of the plague but of exhaustion from his unavailing efforts to save the sick and grief over his failure to do so. He left no direct heir so the High King took the depopulated country's scepter back into his own hands and Cardolan ceased to exist as a separate sub-kingdom.


	8. The King's Man

Beomann stood in his room looking discouragedly at everything he owned in the world piled up on his bed. He turned gratefully at a knock at the door. "Come in." ten delightedly: "Dan!"

The young Ranger smiled. "The Captain tells me you're joining us."

Beomann nodded and looked again at the bed. "But I don't know what to take."

Dan raised his eyebrows slightly. "You didn't have any trouble packing for your last trip to Annuminas did you?"

"But that was just for a short visit," Beomann argued, "now I'm going there to live - maybe for years."

"That does make a difference." Dan agreed and studied the heap on the bed. "Well you're not going to need that," he said pointing to Beomann's holiday suit, "but you are definitely going to be wanting that." and the pointing finger shifted to the sword from the barrow.

The Breelander smiled palely. "I figured out that much for myself."

"I think you can leave the ninepins and throwing rings," Dan continued with twinkle in his eye as Beomann blushed, "but take the bow and the folding knife."

"It's not much of a bow, just for playing at rovers." Beomann said apologetically.

"It will do for target practice at least, until we can get you another." the Ranger answered. "What is this - a book?"

Beomann blushed again, even redder. "Oh that. A trader came through a few years ago with a lot of odds and sods from some estate sale in the Shire. It's a collection of old stories."

"So I see," Dan said, turning the pages. "'The Coming of the King', 'The Tale of Whiteflower', 'The Dragon of Gram Mountain', 'The Deed of the Woodcutter's Son', 'The Song of the Lonely Queen', 'The Quest of the Knights of the North'..." he shook his head wonderingly. "I'd never have guessed your folk or the Little Ones remembered so much from the Olden Times."

"You thought we'd forgotten all about the Kings didn't you?" Beomann challenged.

"Frankly yes. It has been a dozen lives of your kind of Men since there was a King in the North, more than enough time to be forgotten - or so we believed."

"Well you were wrong."

"So I see." Dan smiled ruefully. "And not for the first time."

Beomann licked his lips. "Are they true, the stories I mean."

"Oh yes," the Ranger answered, still studying the book, "well mostly. We have histories that tell them in full."

Beomann's face lit up - then fell. "In Westron?"

"Some, but many more are written in Sindarin, or the High Tongue of Old." "Are those hard to learn?"

Beomann asked anxiously. "Very. Or so the Men of Rhudaur tell us." Dan smiled encouragingly. "But you will have all the help you could wish for if you want to try."

--

When he came downstairs, packed saddlebags over his shoulder, Beomann discovered his Dad and Mum had bought him a horse as a going away present, one of the fine Thornhill riding stock favored by all the gentry. He was a beautiful animal; bright bay with black stockings and an intelligent eye and must have cost a mort of silver pennies. Beomann was touched almost to tears by the gesture, and found himself choking up in the most unexpected and embarrassing way - and at his age too! - as he said his good-byes.

The Rangers - the other Rangers Beomann reminded himself - had tactfully taken themselves off to the stableyard so he had a chance to pull himself together and dry his eyes before going to join them. Half the town turned out to see them go. Beomann, acutely aware of the sword buckled over his jacket and breeches was certain he looked more than a little ridiculous even on the new horse. He caught more than a few disapproving looks and somber headshakings among the old gaffers, but saw also some wistful and even envious expressions on the faces of the younger folk. Happily the townsfolk's attention was mostly on young Daeron and his sister. Ranger children were something no one in Bree had ever seen before or even imagined. Then they were out the open gate and on the Great Road heading westward.

--

"What is his name?" Gil asked.

Beomann blinked blankly up at him then realized the Ranger was talking about his new horse. "Brandywine, like the river."

"Which we call the Baranduin. 'Baran' meaning golden brown and 'duin' river."

"So duin is your word for river." Beomann said tucking the fact away. "One of them." Gil answered. "'Sir' is also river, deriving from an ancient High Elven root meaning 'flow' as of water. Or 'Celu' which refers specifically to swift running waters."

"Duin, Sir, Celu." Beomann repeated. "Three different names for the same thing?"

"Elves love words and coined many, each with its own subtle shades of meaning." Gil explained. "That is one of the things that make their languages so difficult to learn and even harder to use correctly."

"That's encouraging." Beomann said gloomily.

The Ranger smiled. "Yet many Men have learned to speak both tongues well, no reason why you should not - if you are willing to work at it."

"I want to read those books Dan mentioned." Beomann told him.

"Then we shall have to teach you the tengwar, the Elvish script, as well."

"They can't even write with the same letters as the rest of us?" the Breelander demanded almost despairingly.

"All letters are Elven in origin." Gil replied calmly. "Eastern Men and the Dwarves adapted the Grey Elven cirth to their own uses. But the Tengwar is the alphabet of the High Elves of the West, adopted by the Fathers of Men in ancient times." he smiled. "But we Men are changeable by nature and we must needs alter anything that comes to our hand to suit ourselves. The letters you learned are not quite the same as those used by my kin which have deviated least from the Elven mode."

Beomann sighed. "Fine. So I have to learn two languages and a new alphabet as well. It'll give me something to do in between fighting Wights and Bandits and Orcs and what else."

Gil laughed. "Don't forget rebuilding long ruined cities." "I haven't." said Beomann.

--


	9. The Rangers At Home

Brandywine was three hands shorter than the very tall and rather shaggy horses the Rangers rode but kept pace with the best of them as they alternately walked and trotted until mid-afternoon when the company stopped at the Forsaken Inn for lunch. The Forsaken was much smaller than the Pony, and had a discouraged, run down look as it huddled behind its protective stockade of massive logs. A lonely outpost of the Breeland it was run by a cousin of Beomann's.

Bannock Butterbur didn't have much to say about the company his young relative had fallen into but he shook his head a lot. And Aunt Alisoun kept muttering 'Your poor mother!' under her breath whenever Beomann was in earshot.

Cousin Ban, unlike Barliman, rather liked the idea of new settlements. "More folk on the road means more business for me." he observed, puffing his pipe. The Forsaken, unlike the Pony, was almost entirely dependent on travelers there being naught but a few scattered homesteads near enough to give it regular custom.

"Once the building begins you'll have all the business you could wish for." Gilvagor assured him.

Ban brightened even more. "That sounds promising, don't you think Mum?"

Aunt Alisoun snorted. "Don't count unhatched chickens." she told her son. "I'll believe it when I see it."

"I'm not sure I will even then." Gil said and smiled at her.

Old Mrs. Butterbur blinked, then to the astonishment of her nephew and son, smiled in return - all but cracking her face. "Not that good fortune won't be welcome if it comes." she half apologized. "But living hard in the Wild as we do, I don't like to get my hopes up you see."

"I see that very well." Gil answered with a touch of Ranger grimness.

They went on after an all to short lunch and continued until nightfall. By this time Beomann was feeling the effects of his long hours in the saddle and even Brandywine was beginning to droop, his neck losing the proud arch of the morning. Suddenly Longbow - no Belegon Beomann reminded himself - who was in the lead, turned southward off the road into the rolling grassland winding his way between scattered clumps of brush and occasional stone outcroppings.

"Where are we going?" Beomann whispered to Dan.

"To Tor Nencair 1, we'll spend the night there."

"Where?"

Dan remembered who he was talking to and explained more fully. "A Ranger holding just off the Road."

"I thought you told me all your homes had been destroyed." Beomann said, frowning in confusion.

"North of the Road. There are still some standing south of it."

--

A mile or so off the Road a boy suddenly rose up out of the dry winter grass, Belegon reined to speak to him, unstartled as if he'd expected to be so met. The boy was as tall as Beomann, but skinny with it as if he'd just got his growth, dark haired and light eyed like most Rangers, and wrapped in a cloak of mottled greens and browns that had rendered him invisible in the twilight until he'd moved. He exchanged a few soft words in the Ranger language with Belegon, then walking at his stirrup led them around the slope of a down into a little hollow.

At first Beomann didn't see the holding, then he did and stared in disbelief. Several turf covered roofs, little more then Man-high were clustered beneath the steep face of the down. One of these proved to be a stable, sunk deep into the earth and reached by a covered ramp. They left the horses there, cozy with beds of straw and mangers of hay, and followed the boy to a long gabled roof with side wings. Down a steep flight of steps they went to a door in a rough fieldstone wall, it opened and Beomann followed Dan through to come to a full stop, jaw dropping.

He was standing on the threshold of a large and perfectly ordinary kitchen with sanded floor, pewter plates on a dark wooden dresser and cured hams, strings of onions and apples, and clumps of herbs hanging from the ceiling.

A girl stood at the long table chopping something fine and a Woman bent over a turning spit, ladling juices over the meat. Aproned and flushed with the kitchen heat they reminded Beomann, with a twinge of homesickness, of his own mother and sisters dwspite the differences in height and coloring.

A calico cat dozed contentedly on one of the brick benches inside the cavernous fireplace and the Woman, finished with her basting, sat down on the other picked up a small bowl and began adding pinches of something to a pot bubbling on the fender. Then Lightfoot nudged Beomann from behind and he blushed and hastily followed Belegon, Gil and Dan through a doorway next to the big fireplace into a dining room.

Like the kitchen it was unusually large and longer than it was wide but nowhere near so homelike. The walls were pattern with strips of willow and alder wood and hung with colorful, intricately patterned carpets. The chill of the flagstone floor was muffled by mats of woven rushes and the ceiling beams carved with spirals and flower shapes painted blue and green and yellow and red.

A tall skinny boy, some five or six years younger than Beomann at a guess, was setting a long table covered with a fine linen cloth. The plates and tankards were pewter, just like at home, but engraved with designs of ships and stars and flowering trees. A Man with snow white hair and beard rose from a cushioned settle drawn up before the fire to greet them, the first really old looking Ranger Beomann had ever seen and he wondered, a little uneasily, just how old one had to be before he started looking it.

The Man greeted them in the Ranger language but Belegon answered in Westron, for Beomann's benefit. "Thank you, Ingold, but I fear we're rather a large company for you to put up on such short notice."

"Not at all, Captain." the old Man replied. "It will fill up the empty spaces. We've been lonely, my grandchildren and I, with so much of the family away." 2

"And not likely to return anytime soon, I fear." Belegon sighed. "All that can be said for conditions in the South is that we're better off than the North." They both looked at Gilvagor.

He shrugged. "We have roofs over our heads and enough food to get through the winter thanks to our friends in Bree and the Shire. But we shall have to begin all over again and it's hard to know where to start."

"Aragorn knows where he wants to start," Belegon continued as they all found seats before the fire. "he intends to rebuild the cities starting with Fornost, Minas Sul and Cardol."

Ingold looked startled then dubious, and the two boys setting the table stopped their work to stare. "An ambitious undertaking." said their grandfather.

The doubt clear in his voice annoyed Beomann. "Why doesn't anybody but me seem to like the idea?" he blurted. "They were your cities after all you should want to rebuild them now that you can!"

"It's been a very long time, even by our measure, since we were city dwellers." Gil explained. "After long years of living solitary in the Wild the idea of living cheek by jowl with thousands of other Men is not entirely appealing." he sighed. "And I wonder if there are enough of us left to people even one city much less three."

"The numbers coming in to Annuminas show more have survived than we at first dared to hope." his sister, Lightfoot, reminded him. "And I have spoken with emissaries of our kin over the Mountains. They are weary of being guests and would like to come home."

"There are more of you?" Beomann asked, startled. "Over which mountains?"

"The Ered Luin, the Blue Mountains." she explained. "Your people's legend that we went to live with the Elves is not entirely wrong, tens of thousands were harried from their homes after the fall of Fornost and found refuge in the Elven realm of Lindon. Many, having no homes to return to, remained there and have increased in number over the long years." she looked with a smile at her brother. "And they are accustomed to cities, having known both the Havens and Cor Corion." 4

Gil returned the smile wryly. "There you are, Beomann, some at least of our people will welcome the rebuilding as you do."

--

NOTES:

1. 'Watership Down', (assuming 'tor' is singular for Tyrn. ;) I couldn't resist.

2. The Men of age to bear arms; Ingold's son-in-law, grandson and the husbands of his great-granddaughters, are on Ranger duty in the former Cardolan, tracking down fugitive Orcs and Wargs and putting down bandits preying on the local population and refugees from the troubles further south. His daughter and granddaughter-in-law are also away helping Belegon's mother, the Lady of the Red Hills, mediate between those refugees and the locals.

There are few settlements south of the Road. The fairly large population of Men and Hobbits are semi-nomadic after the fashion of American frontiersmen building themselves log houses or tunneling shallow holes and raising a few crops before moving on when the fancy takes them. These folk are far better acquainted with Rangers than their settled kin, though they have no more idea who they really are, and are accustomed to enlisting their help in dealing with raiding Orcs or Dunlendings.

The refugees are for the most part simple country folk of Gondor and Rohan and a few Dunlendings all wanting to settle down and build new lives somewhere away from the troubles down South. This has brought them into conflict with the present inhabitants who don't like the idea of their Wild being torn up anymore than Barliman Butterbur did.

3. The Dunedain of Lindon still regard themselves as subjects of Isildur's Heirs and over the centuries many have crossed the Mountains to take service with them. But as the numbers of Elves dropped and those of the Dunedain increased they became vital to the defense of Lindon's long coast against attacks by the Dark Fleet out of Tol Fuin.

4. The City of Circles, Gil-Galad's ancient capital and seat of those Noldor remaining in Middle Earth.


	10. Like Other Men, Yet Unlike

Master Ingold and his family were the first Rangers Beomann had met who seemed almost like plain folk - almost. He and Dan slept in the loft over the dining room, or hall as the Rangers called it.

The sharply peaked ceiling was lined with waxed cloth to protect the occupants from soil filtering through the boards from the sod roof and the cloth was painted with strange looking trees and flowers. There were four beds, low but very long, one in each corner. And each had a bench at its foot with pitcher, washbasin, and folded linen towels, and a copper sconce at the head with a white beeswax candle. The pitchers were taller and slimmer than Breelander fashion, and the basins wide and shallow. Both were glazed a deep rich red and decorated with designs like those on the wall hangings below. The towels had embroidered borders and the candle sconces were wrought in the shape of coiled dragons.

"Dan," Beomann said suddenly, after the candles had been blown out, "how old do your people have to be before you start looking it?"

"A hundred forty or so as a rule." he answered. Then: "In case you're wondering, Ingold is one hundred and sixty-one. A very great age indeed for one not of a Half-Elven house."

"A hundred and sixty-one!" Beomann's eyes popped wide open. "Are you sure? How do you know?"

There was a smile in Dan's voice as he replied: "Because his granddaughter married my grandfather."

"He's your great great gandfather?"

"That's right."

Beomann gulped air like a newly landed fish. Now there was a thought! His grandfather had lived long enough to see his grandchildren, and Granny Butterbur was still alive, living with Aunt Belle. But imagine having not just grandparents but great grandparents and great great grandparents! He began to grasp dimly some of the implications of the Rangers' very long lives. But Dan was still talking.

"Normally Grandfather would have passed on before this, but he didn't want to leave his family in such terrible times. I suppose he'll hang on a few more years, long enough to see our present troubles settled, before laying down his life."

"What?" Beomann turned on his side to look at the other bed, just visible in the dim red firelight reflected through the open trapdoor from the hall below. "Dan, are you saying you people can choose when you're going to die?"

"Well, sort of. It's one of the gifts the Valar gave to us - as a reward for our Fathers' help in the Wars against the Great Enemy - that we should have long lives of undiminished vigor with a short, swift aging at the end. It is our custom to give up our lives willingly before we become enfeebled in mind and body."

"You mean you just say; 'I think I'll die today.' lay yourselves down and do it?" Beomann asked incredulously.

"Well no, not just like that." Dan was beginning to sound a little uncomfortable. "First you make your peace with Arda, with the world that is. Repent of your errors and amend them where you can; let go of attachments to home and kin and concentrate your heart and will on the One. Then, when you desire reunion with Him more than continuing your life in the world, you're ready to pass on. They say when you reach that point it really is as easy as lying down and going to sleep."

Beomann, struggling with half a dozen new and strange ideas, chose the least disturbing of them. "So Ingold's not quite ready to go because he's worried about his family?"

"That's right." Dan sounded relieved the Breelander had gotten the point so easily, or maybe that he hadn't asked any of those other, more awkward questions.

Beomann flopped back against his pillow. And here he'd just been thinking maybe the Rangers weren't such a strange folk after all!

--

Beomann continued their journey the next day in a pensive and distracted frame of mind. Naturally Gil noticed, or perhaps Dan dropped him a word, for after a few hours on the road - long enough for misty dawn to give way to full daylight - he fell back alongside the Breelander.

"Is something troubling you, Beomann?" he asked after riding beside him in silence for several minutes.

"I just can't get a handle on you Rangers!" Beomann burst out - to his own considerable surprise. "Sometimes I think you're not so different from us Bree Men - and other times that you're weirder than Elves and Dwarves put together!"

Gil smiled, but wryly. "You're right on both counts, my friend. We are Men like other Men, and yet we're not. It's not very comfortable for us either." he looked at Beomann sidelong with a twinkle. "But of course from our point of view it is you Breelanders who are the odd ones."

Beomann stared up at him, half outraged, half astonished. "There's nothing odd about us Bree Folk!"

"Isn't there?" Gil asked, suddenly quite serious. "Our country folk have a gift for peace, for contentment, that Men of my kind can only envy. Granted you can be narrow, and parochial and quite infuriatingly stubborn," a shadow of a smile crossed his face, quickly fading, "but for all that, there are no folk anywhere so steadfast in the face of peril or privation."

Beomann could only stare back at him, moved beyond words but incredulous "Us?"

"Yes you!" Gil answered crisply. "It has been many long years since your strength was tested - we Rangers saw to that - but it's still there, ready to come forth at need. To stand fast against the kind of terror wielded by Barrow Wights is no small feat, yet your father and the other Bree Men did so - as I knew they could." he smiled. "And you, my reckless young friend, followed me into the barrow itself which I most certainly did not expect - but am most grateful for."

And Beomann, blushing to the ears, found himself wondering suddenly just how much a desire to live up to the Rover's trust in them had had to do with the Bree Men's unexpected courage - and his own.


	11. The City of the Winds

Wutherington was a deep disappointment.

"I said it was in ruin." Dan reminded Beomann a little sharply.

"I know, I know. I wasn't expecting Annuminas -" he looked up at the steep, rock strewn hillside, "but you can't even tell there was a city here."

"Five times Minas Sul was overrun, and four times retaken and rebuilt." Lightfoot - the Lady Aranel - said softly. "When the Enemy was driven back for the fifth time we discovered he had had the city razed to the ground, so scarcely one stone was left atop another, and we did not rebuild it. Time finished what the Enemy began, but we do not forget."

There was a little silence, broken by her young son Daeron. "You can't see it from below like this, but when you look down from above you can see the outlines of houses and streets."

The boy was right. Standing at the edge of the flat top of the hill and looking down Beomann could indeed make out a tangle of lines, light against the slightly darker grass, which might have been the foundations of buildings with streets and alleyways snaking between them - more like Bree really than Annuminas. The city had only reached about two thirds of the way up the hill. Above the other buildings but still a few hundred feet short of the top was a massive shelf or terrace built out from the hillside on which Beomann could see the outlines of larger buildings.

"That's the citadel," Daeron told him, "where my ancestors lived from the time Urin founded the city to the end of the Witch Wars."

It took Beomann a minute to place the name. "Urin? the Lord Urin who they say ruled the land before the King and fought the Dark Lord himself? He was a real person?"

The boy gave him a reproachful look out of grey eyes very like, had Beomann only known it, the Lord Urin's own. "Of course he was real, I am his heir."

Huhh?

"Urin's House, the Maglavorni, is older even than that of the Kings, the most ancient Mortal lineage surviving in Middle Earth." said Daeron's mother. "And they have governed the midlands since the end of the First Age when Urin led his people across the mountains from foundered Beleriand and built the City of the Winds."

"How long ago was that?" Beomann demanded, not at all sure he really wanted to know.

"Something over six thousand years." was the stunning reply.

He shook his head. "And we've always said in Bree that we were the oldest settlement west of the Great Mountains."

"You are." Aranel said even more astonishingly. "There was a village on Bree hill when Urin passed through, and it was old even then. There's been a settlement at Bree from the time Men first came into the Westlands." she smiled at Beomann, dazzling him. "Your town is far older than the Dunedain."

Once again he had a vertiginous glimpse of the depths of time underlying his world, but now he saw also a little village on the side of a hill outlasting war and pestilence and the rise and fall of Kingdoms and felt a sudden fierce pride in his homeland.

"Not much to work with I fear." Gil said to his sister. "As for the tower..." and they all turned to look at what remained of the great Watchtower of Elendil.

It stood near the middle of the plateau upon a rocky knoll, but the fragmentary walls reached no higher than Belegon's head. It was as if the tower had been sheered away and the upper parts carried off by some titanic force.

"There was a watchtower on Amon Sul from Urin's time," Gil told Beomann, "but they were simple, wooden structures. It was Elendil who had built the Great Tower of Amon Sul, surrounded by a shell keep to house the garrison he set here to guard his eastern frontier."

Belegon and Dan, with little Lalaith tagging happily after them, were walking a great circle around the tower stub eyes on the ground. Arriving back at their starting place, Belegon looked at Gil and shook his head.

"The keep's completely gone. They even dug up the foundations."

Aranel, rather startlingly, smiled. "They would."

"I must admit a watchtower here would be very useful." Gil mused. "But I fear rebuilding city and tower keep is beyond our power, even with the help of the Dwarves." he saw the disappointment on Beomann's face and smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry but we just don't have the resources Elendil had."

"Aragorn is now King in Gondor." Aranel reminded him, but doubtfully.

It was Belegon who answered. "Gondor's little better off than we, from what the refugees say. She'll have all she can do to restore herself."

"I don't really care," Daeron said seriously, "as long as we can rebuild Greymere." he looked worriedly at his Uncle and Gil smiled gently down at him.

"That much we can and will do." he promised then continued briskly. "In fact I would much prefer to concentrate on rebuilding our strongholds along the Line and leave more ambitious plans for later. Much later."

"Aragorn is King." his sister reminded him.

"So he is, but that doesn't mean he can command the impossible."

Though bitterly disappointed Beomann couldn't help but see Gil's point. Clearly building a whole new city in the middle of the Wild, which was what it amounted to, was impossible. And if they did, who would want to live in it? Not Breelanders, and apparently not the Rangers either. They spent the night in a cave hollowed into the knoll beneath the foundations of the tower, and the next morning climbed back down the hill, crossed the road and headed south-west towards the ruins of Sudbury.


	12. The King's Kin

As the company of Rangers zig-zagged up the path running through the series of ditches and earthen ramparts that defended the hilltop stronghold of the Wardens of the South Downs Beomann heard a buzz of voices floating down from above, like Bree on market day. Women's voices mostly, punctuated by the shouts and laughter of children. It was an altogether startling amount of noise for a holding of the habitually silent Rangers. Looking at his companions Beomann saw they were equally surprised and exchanging puzzled looks.

The party passed through a short passage between the overlapping banks  
of the final rampart and emerged into what seemed at first glance a busy village square crowded with Women and children, both Big and Little, who would have looked right at home on the streets of Bree if only they'd been wearing decent clothes instead of leather  
and fleece. But mixed in with them were folk of other kinds. Some looked like the Rangers, tall and fair skinned with dark hair and light eyes, yet had something not quite Ranger-like in their bearing. Others were golden haired and blue eyed or dark of hair  
and eye with swarthy complexions. Beomann saw what looked like a large half timbered house with barns and byres and sheepfolds and cattle pens. And tucked in and around them were dozens of rough, turf roofed shelters with the women sitting in front of them, knitting and gossiping and watching their children play.

Daeron and Lalaith brightened visibly at the sight of other children and darted off to join them the moment they were lifted down from their pillion seats. The adults of the party were still busy stabling the horses when a tall Ranger Woman in a soft grey gown walked towards them down the row of stalls. Sunlight falling through the loft windows bringing out a reddish sheen in her dark hair.

"Beomann Butterbur, my sister Angwen our hostess." Belegon introduced. "Not that she hasn't already a plentitude of guests!" he continued to her: "What is this? When I stopped here on my way to Bree our folk and the refugees were ready to go their own ways."

"So they were, but every spot the new people suggest for their settlement draws cries of protests from our own folk." Angwen looked slightly harried. "My hall is full of quarreling Men and I don't mind telling you, Belegon, that I am near to losing patience with the lot of them!"

"And the Lady of the South Downs has ever been notable for her patience!" teased Gil.

"I haven't taken a battle axe to them yet have I?" the lady retorted. "Though I warn you, my dear Captain and Chief, that such forbearance may not last much longer!"

"Let me see what I can do." said Belegon.  
--

Belegon, Gilvagor, Aranel, Dan and Beomann followed Angwen through a doorway onto a sort of platform overlooking a very long, very high room with benches lined up against the walls beneath pictured hangings. A dozen or so Men, half like Breelanders and half  
of the other kinds, together with a few Hobbits, werestanding in the middle of it wrangling away at the tops of their voices.

Suddenly Belegon walked alone to the edge of the platform. He stood there raised three or four steps above the main floor and a shaft of light fell upon him from a high window making the star that fastened his cloak and the sword hilt on which he rested his hand glitter like silver. It was as if he'd tossed aside some concealing cloak, a kingly power flashed from him like blade from scabbard and the sunlight shone upon his brow like a pale star.

Beomann swallowed hard, all the stories he'd ever read or heard about the Kings and heroes of old rushing together into his head.

Gradually the arguing Men felt the force of that lucent, luminous gaze upon them and one by one turned to look and fall silent, staring slack jawed. Belegon allowed the silence to continue for a long moment as he looked down upon them from his kingly height. When at last he spoke his voice, though not loud, filled the great room from floor to rafter  
like distant thunder:

"I am Belegon son of Belecthor, Prince of Carnarthon and governor of this land in the name of the King. Tell me your quarrel."

Beomann, whose own mouth was dry as a bone, was quite sure the Men would be unable to answer. Finally one of the Ranger looking strangers said, or rather stammered: "King? Then it is true that there's a King again?"

Belegon inclined his head slightly. "It is. He is Elessar Telcontar, Elendil's Heir, and rightwise born High King of Arnor and Gondor. I am his kinsman and liege subject, as are you all." he paused, allowing them to absorb that, before saying in a milder, less awesome voice. "Now what is this quarrel of yours?"

The Bree type Men and Hobbits shifted their feet, exchanged sheepish looks and finally one of the Men said; "Well - sir - it just seems to us like these here strangers are trying to take over and walk all over the local folk."

"We have no such intent!" the Ranger looking Man protested, then added a little shamefaced. "If we have seemed high handed I apologize for it. All we want is a plot of land to settle on."

Belegon raised his brows slightly. "A reasonable enough request." there was a hint of a twinkle in his deep eyes as he continued: "Surely, Will Greenroot, there's some untenanted patch of ground in the Southern Wild you could spare?"

"Well when you put it that way -" Master Greenroot conceded, but still looked unhappy. "It's just that this was our land once and we don't quite like the idea of giving bits of it away to strangers if you take my meaning."

"This is your land, Will," Belegon assured him gravely, "and shall always remain so. But these folk are not strangers but our own long sundered kin. Surely after all this time we can show them a better welcome than angry looks and bitter words?"

Greenroot sighed. "When you're right, you're right - sir." He turned to the foreign Man beside him. "I'm sorry, but life's been cruel hard these last years and I guess it's made us close-fisted and distrustful of outsiders."

"We should have remembered we are petitioners and borne ourselves more humbly." the other Man answered, then he smiled at Will, little ruefully. "But life's been 'cruel hard' for us too - and having lost all, we cling to our pride as the only thing left to us."

Will warmed visibly. "You know, that first spot you picked isn't all that impossible - if you don't mind neighbors."

"We would be glad of them." the stranger said, smile growing. "We have always lived in settled lands and have much to learn about this Wild of yours."

One of the Hobbits chuckled. "You can say that again, begging your pardon, but my folk can hear yours coming a mile off and if we can who knows what else can too?"

The Men who'd been practically at each others throats just moments before shared a wry grin with each other and the Hobbits.

"Well now that's settled perhaps you'd like to share the news with your good ladies, who I am sure are growing impatient." Belegon suggested.

"Impatient." Will said resignedly. "I suppose that's one way of putting it." that brought another shared grin between Men and Hobbits both. The strangers bowed to Belegon, the local folk rather awkwardly followed suit, and then the whole assemblage poured out of the doors into the noisy sunlit yard.

"Now why didn't I think of that?" Angwen wondered walking forward to join her brother.

Belegon smiled down at her. "No doubt for the same reason it never occurred to me until about five minutes ago." he shrugged. "If Aragorn's King in Gondor there's surely no reason for the rest of us to stay in hiding. Though I doubt our own people will be as impressed by the Blood Royal as the Gondorim."

Beomann swallowed twice and was finally able to make his voice work. "Trust me, we'll be impressed!"


	13. The Rose of the Southland

Southwest of the downs was a country of low rolling hills threaded with little silvery streams, and dotted with stands of trees or the occasional outcroppings of rust red stone that had given the region its name; 'Carnarthon' the Red Land. Beomann had never been south of the Road before but he knew this country from his grandfather's tales. The Butterburs' original home had been somewhere near here. A fine big farm, Grandad had said, outside a village called Upwood not far from the King's city of Sudbury. And there was Sudbury, rising from the lowlands around it, and it was in very different case from Wutherington. Not only was it immediately obvious that a city had once stood here but you might even say it still did - after a fashion.

"I must admit this looks more promising." Gil conceded.

"Certainly plenty to work with." Belegon agreed.

The ancient city of Cardol towered above them like a mountain seven terraces high, each encircled by a massive wall of rose red stone with broken gables and domes showing above them between the leafy boughs of evergreen trees. At the very top the ruinous stump of a great tower, rising two or three stories above the citadel wall, was silhouetted against the pale winter sky. A moat fed by five streams encircled the city with a great earthen rampart rising above it crowned by the first circuit wall built of man sized blocks fitted almost seamlessly together and interrupted at regular intervals by semicircular bastions, still sharp edged and unweathered despite centuries of neglect.

The company circled the city southward until they came to the Greenway, the old, overgrown North-South road. The stone bridge that had once crossed the moat to the Great South Gate was broken but the missing center span had been replaced by a rather makeshift arrangement of wood and rope.

Beomann looked at it so dubiously that Dan had to fight back a smile. "Don't worry, it's stronger than it looks." he promised.

"I certainly hope so!" the Bree Man replied, unconvinced.

But although the bridge quivered alarmingly under hoof, hold it did and the company passed safely between the great guard towers and under a broad arched span into the weedy remains of an open square with broad avenues running out of it on either side overshadowed by tall evergreen trees, their branches tangling together overhead to form green shadowed tunnels. Belegon turned eastward.

Looking from side to side as they rode along Beomann saw roofless facades with blindly gaping windows between the massive tree trunks. Side streets opened off the main avenue at regular intervals, those on one side sloping down to the outer wall, and on the other up to the second circuit wall. Every so often the avenue would open up into a square decorated with the remains of fountains and statues or pass through patches of overgrown greenery that had once been parks or gardens.

"The outer shells of the buildings are intact for the most part, except where we've taken stone for the nearer holdings," Belegon told Gil and Aranel, "though the interiors are gutted by fire and pillage and time. Yet a few score Dwarf masons could doubtless put the stonework to right in short order and our own carpenters rebuild floors and roofs."

"But who will live here?" Gil demanded.

"The Gondorim perhaps. Many of them are townsfolk and would doubtless prefer it to farming." Belegon suggested.

"They can't be enough to fill all the seven circles." Gil retorted, apparently determined raise every possible objection.

"Belegon doesn't have to restore all the levels," his sister pointed out. "He can start with the citadel and work his way down as the population grows. Really, Gilya, there's no need to be so contrary!"

"You're just determined not to like the idea aren't you?" said Beomann.

"It strikes me as impractical and a waste of the few resources we have." Gil snapped, then smiled apologetically at the Bree Man. "But I have my orders and will obey them, if not happily."

They wound their way up the seven levels to the high citadel and found its great gate court all but buried under the remains of the toppled tower. The damage was far, far worse here than in the lower circles. The great halls and lesser buildings had not only been gutted by fire but their walls partially pulled down and the very pavements dug up. Tiny fragments were all that was left of the statues and fountains that had once adorned the seat of the Kings of Cardolan.

The party stood silent under the gate for a long moment, looking at the wreckage. "This will take more than a little work by stonemasons and carpenters." Gil observed at last.

"The Dunlendings were very thorough." Belegon agreed quietly.

"I hope they left at least one clear spot where we may camp the night." Aranel said practically.

--

Beomann climbed up to the battlement walk over the gate and looked down at the ruined city. The ruddy stone of which it had been built glowed in the light of the setting sun, and Beomann felt his eyes sting. "It must have been very beautiful once."

"It was indeed." Gilvagor agreed quietly: "Beril en Harmen, the Rose of the South it was called in the Old Days, the pride and delight of the Southern Kingdom."

Beomann turned to look at the Ranger magically materialized next to him. The finely modeled, aristocratic features beneath their scrub of beard and thatch of unkempt hair looked sad and wistful, like one remembering lost splendors.

"Why are you so set against rebuilding it?" Beomann asked bluntly.

"Because I do not think it can be done." Gil answered. "The past cannot be called up again, and we Dunedain and our cities belong to the past. Our time is over."

"How can you say that when you're still here?" Beomann demanded almost angrily. "Without you there wouldn't be a Bree or a Shire or villages along the Brandywine, nor towns in the Angle. There'd be nothing but Wild from the Blue Mountains to the Misties, and it all full of Orcs and Wargs and Bad Men from what Dan says."

Gil smiled a little, still sadly. "Thank you. Yes we have saved that much, but much has been lost and still more will be. The last of the High Elves are preparing to leave Middle Earth and with them will go many old friends and kin dear to us."

He was silent a moment, and when he continued he seemed to be speaking to himself rather than Beomann, perhaps even to have forgotten the Bree Man was there to hear. "I didn't expect to have to deal with any of this. I thought - we all thought - we marched North to our deaths whether the Ringbearer succeeded or no." he gave a faint, wry grimace. "It's almost embarrassing to find oneself still alive after having resolved to die nobly in defense of the West."

Another brief silence, then very quietly: "And I am tired, so tired. Rebuilding the holdings and the Line is almost more than I can face. I have not the strength or the courage to remake a realm." he sighed. "I wish Aragorn would come home."

Beomann, appalled, pitying and desperately embarrassed, found himself remembering the time, nigh on two years ago, when his parents had left him in sole charge of the Pony for a whole three weeks while they went to help Aunt Alison after half the Forsaken's roof had been blown off in an autumn storm and Bannock laid up with a broken leg.

How overburdened he'd felt and how glad he'd been when his parents had finally come home and taken the load off his shoulders! Gil was much older of course, but then he'd had a kingdom and a war left on his hands not just an inn, anyway he seemed to be feeling much the same now as Beomann had then. The Bree Man tried to find something to say.

"But you're not alone anymore," he managed at last, "We Bree Folk will help, and the Hobbits of the Shire and all the other villagers and townsmen. We can show you how to farm and keep shops and all the rest just like you asked. And the Dwarves will help with the building and the folk from down South too." he ran out of breath and inspiration at about the same time and looked nervously at Gil to see what effect he'd had.

The Ranger stared at him in open surprise, he really had forgotten Beomann was there, then he smiled. "Thank you. It is ungrateful of me to talk so but my spirits have been flat on the ground ever since our victory and I don't know why, nor how to raise them."

Beomann didn't know either, but he found himself wondering rather resentfully why Strider - the King - was still lallygagging in the South with so much trouble here in the North that needed fixing. High time he came home!


	14. Hill of the Princes

The next morning they climbed back down the seven levels of Cardol and once outside its gates turned southwest towards Tol Ernil, Belegon's home. The hills became fewer and lower and the ground between them soft and boggy. Occasional clumps of willow and alder gradually thickened into a dense forest of knarled and ancient trees with meres of still water gleaming sullenly between their roots.

Belegon wended his way confidently over this treacherous ground, the rest of the party strung out single file behind him and Beomann was very careful to follow exactly in Gil's tracks for he could see no path at all. Then suddenly from up ahead he heard the unaccountable ring of hoof on stone and a moment or two later Brandywine stepped from boggy earth lumpy with roots onto a moss patched causeway running arrow straight deeper into the wood.

Beomann looked his astonishment at Dan who just grinned. "Not much farther now."

Three miles later the trees suddenly gave way to a broad, mirror smooth moat reflecting the red stone walls of a castle with a long gabled roof and the pinnacle of a tower showing above them. Beomann's mouth dropped open but before he could get any questions out they had clattered across the moat and through the tunnel-like arch of a massive gatehouse into a cobbled courtyard.

The gabled roof belonged to a very high, very long building of the now familiar red stone. The winter bare boughs of a huge and ancient oak tree shaded the flight steps leading up to the great door. The tower beside the hall was linked to it by an arcaded gallery raised high above the ground on stout stone piers and had ten rows of windows, some set with colored glass, glittering in the sunlight.

No faces appeared at those windows nor did anybody emerge from the open door of the hall. The whole place seemed silent and empty as the Elven Princess' Castle in the Tangled Wood, Beomann tensed nervously. Then some Rangers came out of the gatehouse to take the horses, Mortal Men not Elves, and he silently berated himself for being so foolishly relieved. Maybe he had read too many old stories, just as his Dad had always said.

Inside the long building seemed to be one gigantic room. the sun came through big windows, so high up they looked small, and reflected off the red stone walls and vaulted ceiling causing them to glow with a warm and rosy light that made the immense and empty hall seem far less and forbidding than one might expect. The floor was paved with squares of black, white and red marble and four doors were spaced at regular intervals down each long wall, with three huge cold fireplaces set between them. A seventh fireplace, larger than the others, was centered on the curved wall behind the dais at the head of the hall and three black banners hung above it.

One was emblazoned with an arc of seven stars above a single much larger star of many points; the second bore a crossed bow and quiver beneath another many pointed star; and the third, hanging between them, was ensigned with a green oak tree, a golden sun shining in its boughs, beneath an arch of seven silver stars.

"Where is everybody?" Beomann whispered to Dan as they followed Belegon and Gil up the length of the hall.

"Hollin or the Enedwaith or on patrol." the young Ranger answered, "they are as hard pressed here in the South as we in the North."

"Though with a somewhat different set of problems." said Belegon without turning his head. "Hollin is the land between the Loudwater and the Mountains, Beomann, and Enedwaith the country south of the Greyflood."

"But that's not our land is it?" the Bree Man asked uncertainly.

This time Belegon did look around and smiled. "Exactly right. Old Cardolan was bounded by the Road in the north, the Hoarwell in the east, the Brandywine in the west and the Greyflood in the south. But Hollin and the Enedwaith have become lurking places for our enemies and so we have pursued them there."

By now they were climbing up the steps of the dais. "The seven and one stars are the banner of the North Kingdom," Belegon continued. "the bow and quiver is the emblem of my House, the House of the Great Bow, and there between them is the oak and sun of Cardolan."

Beomann craned his neck to look up at it. 'That's our banner,' he thought with a surprising surge of emotion, 'our kingdom and our own king, near at hand in Sudbury not far off at Norbury like the High Kings.' A sudden fierce determination, filled him: 'Strider - the King - is right. It can be that way again and it will be, we'll make it so.'

A pair of doors off the dais led to the wide arcaded passage between hall and tower. At the end of it was another double door made of some red-golden metal brighter than copper and engraved with the oak and sun. On the other side of that was a big round room ringed by gleaming columns of dark grey stone, huge arched windows filled with jewel toned glass showing between them. A simple chair carved of some polished red stone stood on a small dais facing the door.

Tucked behind a pillar was yet another door, this one opening onto a long stone stair spiraling around a great center post and lit by small, deep-set windows. They passed one landing, shaped like a slice of pie with a door opening off it, continued on to a second. This door Belegon opened.

Beomann had time to notice no more than the room was large and bright with sunlight before a small form crying "Papa! Papa!" hurtled out of nowhere to throw itself into Belegon's arms. He caught sight of Aranel's children a second later and promptly wiggle free. "Lalaith, Daeron!"

"My son Bellin," Belegon explained to Beoman as the little boy happily greeted his cousins.

Bellin seemed astonishingly small to be his tall father's son, a pretty child, like Aranel's two, with light brown hair and big blue eyes. "And this is my wife, Finduilas." Beomann found himself looking up at a beautiful lady much taller than himself, though barely coming to her husband's shoulder, with a coil of golden hair and deep blue eyes. Fair haired Rangers were few, Silverlock was the only one Beomann himself had ever seen, he wondered if they were related.1

"This is Beomann Butterbur of Bree," Belegon was telling his wife, "who's taken service with us."

Finduilas smiled at him. "Welcome to Tol Ernil, Beomann Butterbur." And he turned red to the ears and couldn't think of a thing to say, though he did manage a bow. Mercifully the lady then turned her attention to her kin and Beomann was left free to look around.

It was another of those long, narrow Ranger rooms but gently curved to fit into the round tower. The outer wall was all big peaked windows inset with the by now familiar Ranger motifs of moons and suns and stars, flowers and trees, ships and towers, all in colored glass. The deep sills had cushions of green and blue and scarlet to make them comfortable seats for a number of Women and girls, all busily stitching away. A spicy scent came from bowls of dried leaves and flowers standing among the litter of cloth scraps and spools of thread and Beomann realized they were making herb-bags, like the ones his mother used to repel fleas, moths, and other pests.

Such homely objects seemed out of place here, surely folk living in castles didn't have to worry about moth or bugs getting into the flour? He heard Lady Finduilas tell Belegon, "Aragorn has sent another messenger." and turned to listen.

"And what does our Lord and kinsman have to say to us?" Gil asked, an unspoken 'what now?' very clear in face and voice.

"Nothing. He is asking for tidings not sending them." Finduilas replied. "It seems he has grown impatient waiting for a reply to his last missive."

Gil snorted. "He has no idea what we are facing here in the North."

"How can he when we have agreed not to trouble him with it?" Finduilas asked reasonably. And Gil smiled ruefully.

"I know, I'm not being fair to Aragorn. No doubt he has troubles enough and to spare among the Gondorim, which is why I can't understand this obsession of his with rebuilding the ruined cities."

"That is exactly what he's asking about." said Finduilas, and lifted her eyebrows questioningly.

Gil shrugged wearily. "We are agreed Minas Sul is a hopeless case," a smile flashed briefly over his face, "even Beomann here who is wholeheartedly in favor of Aragorn's plan. Stone has been carted away and the very foundations dug up, there is nothing left to work with. Fornost and Cardol are in different case. Only the citadels were deliberately slighted, the lower circles are suffering from the effects of pillage and time but our ancestors built sound and they could be restored with sufficient labor."

"Then let you tell Aragorn's messenger so." the lady said briskly.

--

NOTE:

1. Silverlock and the Lady of Tor Ernil are not related. Finduilas's golden hair comes from her descent from Hador Goldenhead. She is in fact the sister of Aranel's late husband Ingloron, Warden of the Weather Hills.


	15. The King's Squire

Dan, who seemed familiar with the castle, took Beomann up another winding stair - not the original one - to a bright, airy chamber two floors above Lady Finduilas' sewing room. It had a pair of long beds, their carven headboards against the inner wall and big chests brightly painted with hunting scenes at their feet. The curving wall opposite had two deeply recessed windows, one with a table and chair beneath it, the other with a cushioned bench. There was a shelf of books between the two windows, a fireplace in the righthand wall and a door in the left which Dan opened to show a small room with a big round bath, apparently carved from a single lump of red stone and shelves holding pitchers, basins, piles of folded linen towels and a big copper kettle.

"Bathroom." he explained, rather unnecessarily, then moved to the foot of the nearest bed to throw open the lid of its chest. "Now let's see if we can find a livery that will fit you."

'Livery' turned out to be the kind of clothes Beomann had seen Dan and other Rangers wearing in the palace at Annuminas. Like Breelanders they started with a shirt and breeches but instead of waistcoat and jacket covered them with a long tunic and an equally long sleeveless garment Dan called a surcoat. The garments he found for Beomann were a shade to long, loose at the waist and tight at the shoulder but not enough to be obviously ill-fitting. The tunic was of nubby white wool and the surcoat of glossy grey leather, both falling nearly to his ankles. Beomann felt foolish and was afraid he looked it too.

Dan didn't. He he wore the silver brooch, shaped like a many pointed star, from his cloak to fasten his surcoat at the neck. And his belt was made of grey fur and fastened by a silver clasp like two wolves' heads, their jaws locked together.1 There was a knock at the door and another young Ranger came in. His tunic was green and his surcoat black, but he too had a star shaped brooch at his throat.

Dan greeted him with easy familiarity. "Camborn, this is Beomann Butterbur of Bree who's newly taken service with my Captain. Beomann, Camborn is is the service of Captain Belegon and his lady."

"Welcome to Tol Ernil," the new Ranger said to Beomann with an apologetic smile, "though I fear you find us at less than our best." he turned even more apologetically to Dan. "I know it's not done to ask labor of guests, but could you two help with the serving tonight? There's only Brandir, Elboron and I, and Brandir's laid up with a wound." he added quickly at Dan's look of concern. "Oh not bad, just an arrow in the muscle of the calf, but of course he can't carry platters and cups while leaning on a crutch."

"I say yes for myself most readily," Dan answered, "but as for Beomann - " he continued to the puzzled Breelander. "Camborn's asking us to help serve dinner, if you wouldn't mind?"

Beomann grinned. "I'm an innkeeper's son, remember? I've been serving meals to folk since I could walk."

--

Dinner wouldn't be for several hours yet so Dan suggested they go see if Gilvagor had anything he wanted done and led the way back down three flights of yet another winding stair and through a door into a circular room, about a third the size of the throne room below, dominated by a big round table its top inlaid with an elaborate map of all the country west of the Misty mountains, bounded by a great bay in the far north, and a river in the south.2 High backed chairs, carved and painted with the oak and sun, lined walls beneath colorful banners emblazoned with all kinds of devices; not just the usual stars and trees and ships and suns and moons, but flowers, strange beasts, swords, axes and other weapons. Sunlight streamed in through high windows embellished with colored glass.

Beomann would have liked to linger a bit and get a good look at that map but Dan circled briskly around the table to knock on a door in the far wall, then open it. This was a much smaller room, about the size of one of the Pony's private parlors, its red stone walls hung with big parchment maps and its floor covered by a gigantic wolfskin rug. A writing table faced the door with Belegon in the thronelike chair behind it, another oak and sun banner showing over his shoulder, and Gil in a second chair facing him.

"Come in Beomann." he said. "Danilos, you will find the Dunadan's messenger in the west solar, bring him to us if you please."

Dan nodded and went out again. Beomann came further in, paused to look at the maps on the wall. They seemed to be of the Wilds south of the road, all dotted with little houses and towers labeled with names written in strange letters. A number of them had been scored through by a slash of red ink.

"So, Beomann, what do you think of our manner of dress?" Gil asked with a teasing glint in his eye.

"I feel like I'm wearing skirts," Beomann admitted, "but at least there aren't any petticoats!" he shrugged. "I'll get used to it."

"I don't doubt but you will." Gil indicated a sealed letter on the table. "We are writing the King that Norbury and Sudbury may be rebuilt, but Wutherington is beyond salvaging. You agree?"

"Oh yes, like you said there's nothing left to work with there." Beomann cocked his head, puzzled. "But why ask me?"

"Because you are the only available representative of the Men of Eriador, and the matter concerns your folk as much as ours." Gil answered briskly then smiled. "I have told Aragorn you approve of the idea. Though your father seemed less pleased."

"Dad doesn't like things to change but he'll be pleased enough when there's more business going through Bree." Beomann frowned. "You saw how Aunt Alisoun and Cousin Ban can barely keep their heads above water? Well if something isn't done about it we might be in as bad case in Bree before to long."

"It won't come to that," Belegon assured him quickly. "even if the cities are never rebuilt, the Road will be safe to travel again and trade will pick up."

"But I don't just want things to go back to how they were!" Beomann burst out with a vehemence that surprised him quite as much as the two Rangers. "That may be all Dad wants but I want more." he pointed to the oak and sun hanging behind Belegon's chair. "I want that banner to mean something again. I want our Kingdom back, with its cities and towns and its King too. I want my people to be what they once were." he blinked back the tears stinging his eyes, swallowed. "And if Strider - the King I mean - wants that too, I'll do everything I can to help make it come true."

"That is exactly what the King wants," Gil said softly, "and he will need all the help Men like you, who share his vision, can give him."

There was a knock at the door. Gil gestured for Beomann to stand beside him as it opened admitting Dan and a Man who looked like a Ranger in height and coloring but wasn't one, dressed all in black with a white tree and seven stars on his surcoat. Beomann wasn't quite sure just why he was so certain the Man wasn't a Ranger, maybe it was the open shock in his face as he stared at Gil and Belegon. Beomann looked at them too.

Both had risen at the messenger's entrance. They were washed and brushed and dressed in the deep grey that seemed to be the favorite Ranger color when they were out of green leather.3 Beomann had gotten used to the fact that Gil was beautiful, he'd even gotten used to Aranel's dazzling looks, and to Belegon's majestic height. You'd think a Man from the grand Southern Kingdom would be accustomed to people who were beautiful and people who were very, very tall - but maybe not.

Or maybe the messenger wasn't any more used to people with the kind of power Gil had shown in the Barrow or Belegon to the quarreling Men in the Downs than Beomann himself was. Beomann could sense that power still, quiescent under the two Ranger Captain's ordinary manner like a banked fire ready to burst forth at any minute.

Suddenly the Man seemed to realize he'd been staring, flushed a little, took three steps forward and bowed. I apologize for your long wait, Asgon of Gondor," Gil said, gently as if he wanted to avoid giving the Man any more shocks, "but I am sure my kinswoman, the Lady Finduilas made the delay as pleasant as possible."

Asgon bowed again but apparently couldn't think of anything to say. Beomann knew the feeling, high ranking Rangers seemed to do that to people.

"I am Gilvagor son of Armegil, the High King's heir and deputy here in the North." Gil continued. "Captain Belegon and I have been inspecting the sites of the old cities. Fornost Erain and Cardol have been sadly damaged by time and their citadels slighted by our enemies yet with sufficient labor they may be restored. Minas Sul however has been all but erased, her very foundations dug up, and would require a total rebuilding that is beyond our means." He picked up the letter and handed it to Beomann, who looked at it blankly for a moment then realized he was supposed to give it to the messenger and did so.

Now it was Belegon's turn to talk: "I would ask that you delay your departure till tomorrow so my kinsman and I may here firsthand the news of our kin in the south." he gave the messenger a reassuring smile such as one gives nervous children. "And I will send one of my Men with you in the morning to guide your company on safe paths known to us."

Asgon finally found his voice. "Thank you, my Lord, you are very kind."

--

NOTES:

1. The star brooch is of course the Badge of the North Kingdom worn by all Rangers, (re: The Grey Company). The wolfskin belt with its ornate wolf head buckle is an award of valor for saving a companion by killing, or helping to kill, a great Warg.

2. The Bay of Forochel and the River Isen, in other words the map covers all the lands ruled by the Isildurioni and their allies.

3. Grey is Dunedain mourning.


	16. Oaths

Beomann should have known serving dinner in a castle would be nothing like serving customers at the Pony, For one thing it was a lot quieter. And there was only the one table set up in Lady Finduilas' sewing room, or solar as the Rangers called it.

She was there with Belegon and Gilvagor and another Ranger Woman and two or three more Men, and Asgon of Gondor who did most of the talking about the happenings down south.

Quite a lot seemed to have been going on there. Beomann couldn't follow it very well, there were too many people and places he'd never heard of mixed up in it, but it sounded  
pretty alarming; winged demons and armies of Orcs and Evil Men, and important people burning themselves alive and all. Most disturbing of all was this army of ghosts, the Oathbreakers Asgon called them, who'd strangely enough been on the Good side, crawling out of their graves to help Strider rescue the Southern capital.

Asgon made it sound like it was one of the early Kings - Isildur? - who'd turned them into ghosts. Surely that couldn't be right? Still Beomann worried over it as he served and cleared and when Gil drew him aside after dinner, he found himself bursting right out with it.

"I'm afraid it's true." Gil answered soberly. "The Dead Men of Dunharrow were a mountain tribe that swore fealty to the Kings of Gondor but broke their oath at the behest of the Dark Lord."

"So the King cursed them?" Beomann asked incredulously.

"To find no rest until their oath was finally fulfilled." Gil agreed heavily.

"But - but how could he do that?" Beomann stammered. "I mean dead's dead isn't it? How could he force their ghosts to stay in the world?"

Gil smiled a little, not happily. "By what you would call magic. The Line of the Kings has Elven blood in it, and another strain even more powerful. We can do such things if we will."

Beomann stared, round eyed. "Could you do that?"

Gil's face went very grim. "Yes."

The Bree Man swallowed hard. "Would you?"

Gil sighed and the grimness fell away and he looked only sad and troubled. "I would like to say no, never, for you are right it was a terrible punishment. More cruel perhaps than even such a crime as theirs deserved. But who can say what foresight was upon Isildur when he chose it?"

"You mean he might have known Strider - the King - would need a ghost army thousands of years later?" Beomann asked incredulously.

A smile flickered briefly over Gil's face. "Something like that. And so I cannot truthfully say I would never do such a thing - only that I fervently hope I will never have to."

Beomann shuddered agreement. Bad enough to have something like that done to you, worse still to have done it and carry it on your conscience.

"To bind yourself by oath to the Kings of the West is a perilous thing," Gil continued quietly, "it puts you in our power and that power can be terrible indeed. That is why I have put off asking any oath of you, Beomann. I wanted you to see something of the life  
you would be committing yourself to before you did anything irrevocable."

Irrevocable, Beomann shivered. He knew the kind of power Gil was talking about, he'd seen it with his own eyes back in the Barrow on the Downs. And thinking of that reminded him of something else. "That's how you called little Tom and Daisy back from whatever place they'd gone to isn't it? 'By the oaths of Elendil the King and Hundeth  
the Chief' you said. We already belong to you don't we, to the Kings that is."

"As the Heirs of Elendil belong to you." Gilvagor said quietly.

It was like turning a piece of cloth over and looking at the pattern from the right side. The House of the Kings had never hurt their people and never would. For Beomann to be afraid of Gil, magic or no, was as silly as him being afraid of his family or of his town.

His apprehensions melted away and he squared his shoulders. "Well I've seen and I  
haven't changed my mind."

"Very well then." Gil said, turning brisk and businesslike."Beoman son of Barliman, are you willing to swear head and heart and hand to the service of the King of the West?"

"I am!" he answered firmly, reflecting there was probably proper ceremonial answer but he didn't know what it was and Gil didn't seem to think it mattered.

"Then I accept your service in the name of King Elessar Telcontar." Gil put his hand on Beomann's head and went on. "As the liege man binds himself to his Lord so is Lord bound to his liege. This oath shall stand in memory of the Faith of Elendil the Faithful and of Hundeth the Wise in the keeping of those who sit upon the thrones of the West and of the One above all thrones forever."

Beomann swallowed, feeling tears brim. He had no idea what that last bit meant but it wakened feelings in him, unfamiliar and powerful.

Gil gave him that smile, the one that made him look no older than Beomann and more mischievous then all three little Butterbur boys put together. "Now my new Liege, we have much work to do. Shall we get to it?"  
--


End file.
